Castaways: The First Quarter Quell
by Captain of Sunken Ships
Summary: "As a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their choice to initiate violence, each district will hold an election to select its own tributes." Outcasts. Betrayed. Abandoned by their districts, cast into the Games knowing that their own people chose them to die. These are the tributes of the First Quarter Quell. Welcome to the 25th Hunger Games.
1. What's in a Name?

**Castaways  
The 25th Hunger Games**

* * *

 **Prologue Part 1  
** **What's in a Name?**

 **Day Before the Reaping**

* * *

 **District Nine Population:** 12,793  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 1,156

 **Lydia Teff, 34** **  
** **Victor of the 9th Hunger Games**

She was one of the first to vote. Not because she particularly _wanted_ to vote to send two kids to their deaths, but because she'd already made up her mind. She'd spent the better part of the last week watching the teenagers in the fields, looking for good prospects. Maybe that was sick, maybe it was wrong … but it seemed better than choosing a name at random. If _someone_ was going into the Games, it might as well be someone who had a chance.

So she hadn't even flipped past the first page of names on each ballot. The eighteen-year-olds were listed on the first page, the seventeen-year-olds on the second, and so on. Come to think of it, she'd barely seen _anyone_ flip past the first page. That was promising, at least. Maybe the rest of the district shared her point of view. If enough of them voted for someone who had a _chance_ , then District Nine might get lucky enough to bring home its third Victor.

She wasn't kidding herself, of course. All across Panem, citizens in other districts were probably thinking the same thing. They would _all_ send their best. Most of this year's tributes would probably be older, stronger, more capable than a normal year.

Certainly more capable than her year.

Lydia quickly found the names she wanted – two eighteen-year-olds, both hard workers, both strong, both capable. Both a bit like … well, a bit like her, if she was being honest. Both people who might be able to win, then put the Games behind them and move on with their lives.

Except they couldn't both win. Even if District Nine came home with a Victor, one of their tributes would die. Maybe one of the kids she'd just voted for. It was wrong. It was awful. But fretting about it wasn't going to change a thing.

Lydia set her pen down, then handed her ballot to a Peacekeeper, who checked to make sure she'd marked two names and then grunted at her to leave. Lydia quickly obliged, turning her seat over to the next person in line – a line that stretched out the door of the Justice Building and well into the square.

She clapped Raven on the back as she passed the end of the line. "You know, if you tell them you're a Victor, they'll probably let you go to the front," she offered, but Raven shook her head. Maybe she hadn't made up her mind yet. Maybe she just wanted to prolong the inevitable. But there was no point in that now – not when the reaping was tomorrow.

Tomorrow. She could worry about that tomorrow. Right now, she meant to get on with the rest of her day.

* * *

 **District One Population:** 23,174  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 1,953

 **Angelo Knox, 40** **  
** **Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games**

He was one of the first to vote. Even so, Angelo was still met by dozens of teenagers with signs on his way to the Justice Building. "Vote for Jasper," read one. Another proudly proclaimed, "Gloria is your next Victor!" For the last few weeks – ever since the announcement of the Quell – the strongest and best Careers from the academy had been campaigning for votes. Showing off in the streets. Challenging each other to bouts in the square.

It was quite a change from his Games. His Games had involved a lot less fighting and a lot more hiding – at least on the part of the other tributes. It had taken him five days to track down the cleverest hiders. But none of them had been able to hide forever.

These days, there wasn't as much hiding. Certainly not among the Careers. District Two had seen a spike in training around the Tenth Games, and District One around the Fifteenth, with Ruby's victory. Even District Four was beginning to get in on the action, and there were rumors that they might have a full-fledged training academy built by the end of the year. Recently, the Career packs had included both tributes from all three districts, for a total of six in the alliance – a number he would never have dreamed of recruiting into an alliance during his own Games.

But things changed. Times changed. And, at least for District One, the change was a welcome one. It meant that no one had to feel guilty about circling a name today. In fact, he'd already made his choice before seeing the signs the teens were holding. Angelo quickly circled a name on the first page of each ballot and handed it back to the Peacekeeper without even taking a seat.

The Peacekeeper nodded. "Those two again? Looks good for them so far."

Angelo shrugged. "It's still early." And it was. The sun was still starting to rise as he left the Justice Building, but the line already stretched out into the district square. He quickly spotted Ruby and the Camlet twins, along with their families, near the front of the line. Jasmine waved, and Jerica gave him a quick thumbs-up before entering the Justice Building herself.

Angelo couldn't help a smile. Maybe he wasn't a Career himself, but they'd certainly accepted him into the fold – or into the pack, as it were. And why not? In his own way, he'd been a predator during his Games. Less a pack hunter and more of a tracker, but a predator nonetheless. That was what they all were – and what they always would be. He could only hope the same would be true of this year's tributes.

* * *

 **District Six Population:** 726,403  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 74,023

 **Elva Dent, 39** **  
** **Victor of the 1st Hunger Games**

She was one of the last to vote. Elva glanced around at the rest of the line as the sun started to sink behind the Justice Building. It would be her turn soon. Her turn to choose two names – to select two teenagers who she thought would be the best candidates for the Games. Their best chance of winning.

But what did she know about who would have a good chance? The Games weren't what they used to be. During her Games – the _first_ Games – there had been no time for alliances, no time for planning and scheming. After a few days of training, during which most of the tributes had kept to themselves, they'd been left in an arena barely larger than the Justice Building. A coliseum with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide – nothing but a pile of weapons in the middle and the knowledge that they would have to kill each other in order to get out alive.

So she had. One of the few who had been willing to fight from the start, she'd grabbed a spear and plunged in. She hadn't known what else to do. Three hours later, she'd been the only tribute left standing. Bleeding. Sweating. Tired. But not starving. Not dying of thirst. Not half-mad after weeks in an arena with no one to rely on but herself. The Games were different now. They were longer. They were tougher.

Elva clenched her fists. She wasn't even sure if _she_ would survive what the Games had become. So how was she supposed to know which teenagers would have a chance? How was she supposed to recognize from just a name which ones would be able to hold their own in the arena? How much could anyone tell from a name?

Maybe if she'd spent more time with them. But she rarely spent time with anyone but her own family. In fact, she rarely left Victors' Village. How many of the people she had passed today would even recognize her? How many even knew she was a Victor?

And not just a Victor – but District Six's _only_ Victor. But even that … it didn't mean what it did in other districts. She wasn't a hero. She wasn't the idol that Victors in Career districts aspired to be. She was a survivor – nothing more. She hadn't won. She'd _survived._

So she was looking for survivors. But who was that? Finally, the line inched forward enough for her to make her way through the door. A Peacekeeper shoved a ballot into her hands. The print was small – almost unreadable. Probably because of the number of names they'd tried to cram on each page. A full three pages of eighteen-year-olds of each gender before they even _got_ to the seventeen-year-olds. No one seemed to be turning their ballots more than a page or two.

So she turned to the third page of each ballot. The last page of eighteen-year-olds. And she circled the last name – the last boy and the last girl in the eighteen-year-old section. She didn't know them. She didn't know _most_ of the names. But she would remember. She would listen tomorrow. And she would hope that enough people had picked different names.

* * *

 **District Eight Population:** 107,487  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 11,978

 **Wolfrick Loden, 21  
** **Victor of the 20th Hunger Games**

He was one of the last to vote. In fact, the Peacekeepers had to come and find him. They had a list, maybe – of everyone who had voted so far. Of course they did. Peacekeepers were nothing if not meticulous. Of course they had to make sure that everyone had the chance to send a kid to their deaths.

It was well past sundown when they finally knocked on his door. It took Woof a moment to get up, and even longer to make his way to the door. He was tired. He always seemed to be tired. He certainly hadn't felt up to heading down to the Justice Building.

It wasn't the walk that was the problem, really – although he still didn't have the energy he'd had before his Games. It was the people. The crowds. He wasn't ready to face them – not yet. Not even if most of them wouldn't recognize him. Not that he blamed them. He scarcely recognized himself sometimes. Sometimes, he'd look in the mirror, and it was as if a complete stranger was staring back.

A stranger who had won the Hunger Games.

"Mr. Loden?" the Peacekeeper asked. As if he didn't know. Only one person lived in Victors' Village, after all. Even his own parents still lived in their old house. They said it was more comfortable, more … more what they were used to. But he knew the truth. It wasn't the luxurious mansion in Victors' Village that they found uncomfortable.

It was him. Their son. The boy who had wasted away in the marsh of the arena, living on the swamp creatures and the few edible plants he could find. The boy who had killed four other tributes – four other _children_ – including his own district partner. _That_ was what they couldn't stand. They tried as hard as anyone would, but he was just too _different_.

Woof nodded and took the ballot the Peacekeeper handed him. There were so many names. Hundreds. _Thousands._ How was he supposed to know who to vote for? He didn't know any of these kids. Okay. He turned the page. At least he knew enough not to vote for his little sister, Velvet. As long as it wasn't her, maybe it didn't even _matter_ who he voted for.

And it wasn't as if anyone would vote for her. She was only fourteen. Her name was on one of the last pages. No one would flip that far. No one _wanted_ to flip that far. Who in their right mind would want to send a fourteen-year-old into the Games?

Then again, who would want to send _anyone_ into the Games? He had been sixteen. His district partner had been eighteen. That hadn't made things any easier. That hadn't made what had happened to her right. That didn't change what he had done.

Woof turned the first page, and then the next. So many names. So many _children_. What were the chances that the name he circled would make a difference? Tens of thousands of people had already voted today. What were the chances that his one vote would be the one to tip the balance?

So he circled a name in the center of the second page of the boys' ballot, then flipped to the third page of the girls' ballot and circled another name. The Peacekeeper snorted a little as he handed the ballot back. "Sleep tight," the Peacekeeper muttered, but Woof already knew he wouldn't. He never did.

* * *

 **Submissions are open. Information is on my profile page.**


	2. Safe and Sound

**Prologue Part 2  
** **Night Before the Reaping  
** **Safe and Sound**

* * *

 **District Two Population:** 256,930  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 23,946

 **Tabatha Flint, 27  
** **Victor of the 16th Hunger Games**

"So who'd you vote for?" Tabatha's mother asked as the five of them – Tabatha, her mother and father, and her two younger sisters – sat down for supper. Tabatha couldn't help a smile. A subject like that might be discouraged in other districts, where being voted into the Games would practically be a death sentence. But here…

Here in District Two, potential tributes had practically been _begging_ for votes. Not that she blamed them. She would probably have been doing exactly the same thing, if this had been her last year, her last chance at the Games. So she'd voted for two of the eighteen-year-olds from the academy. There were seventeen and even sixteen year olds campaigning, but they would have their chance next year. She'd waited until she was eighteen to volunteer, and so could they.

As long as a majority of the district shared her opinion, of course. Maybe some of them would vote for the younger contenders, but surely not any too young. The youngest Victor had only been fourteen, after all, and he was the exception. There had also been two fifteen-year-old Victors, but the rest had been at least sixteen. And this year, surely the other districts would be sending their best, as well. In an arena of older tributes, anyone too young would be at even more of a disadvantage than usual.

"Garrett and Ebony," Tabatha answered. "You?" Her mother named two more of the older trainees, her father a different pair entirely. Her sisters had each voted for a separate pair. Tabatha chuckled. She hadn't realized quite so many of the trainees were running serious campaigns. If her own family was any indication, it could end up being a pretty close race.

But, unlike in other districts, she didn't have to worry about her own sisters being caught up in that sort of mess. Belinda was too old, and Roxanne was only sixteen. Sixteen and _not_ campaigning in the slightest. The chances of her being voted in were next to none, especially since she'd made it clear that she _didn't_ want to follow in her older sister's footsteps.

Neither had Belinda, and Tabatha had never begrudged them that. The Games weren't for everyone. Before she'd volunteered, she hadn't even been certain they were for her. But her time in the arena … it had changed her. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. It had certainly made her much more appreciative of the life she had, of the family she had learned to treasure even more since her return.

If her sisters didn't have to risk their lives in the arena in order to learn that lesson, all the better. There were plenty of Career trainees who were ready to step in if either of them had happened to be reaped in a different year, and this year, with all the trainees vying for a spot, no one would waste their vote on someone who didn't want it. Her family was safe.

* * *

 **District Eleven Population:** 148,732  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 13,758

 **Isaac Finch, 20  
** **Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games**

"So who did you vote for?" Isaac flinched at the sound of his little brother's voice as he entered the room. Their mother had already prepared supper, and his little brother Asher and older sister Meredith were seated around the table. His mother and sister had voted earlier in the day, but he'd been putting it off as long as he could.

"Not you," Isaac assured Asher. And surely no one else would. There were plenty of other names to choose from without having to resort to choosing a thirteen-year-old, even if his brother was a Victor. "And not anyone you know." Asher had given them a list last night of all his friends at school, all their older siblings, anyone else he knew. All the names he could think of that they _shouldn't_ vote for.

Isaac sat down, and the four of them continued to eat in silence. Why should the fact that his brother happened to know someone make their life any more important than another child in the district? Why had it been easier to circle the name of someone he was certain he didn't know? Someone he was certain that no one in his family knew?

What if the name he had circled ended up being the same person whose name was called tomorrow? What was he supposed to tell them? Was he supposed to apologize for not knowing who they were? For not having some connection to them before they were chosen for the Games?

"Isaac?" His mother's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he practically jumped out of his chair. "Sorry," she quickly apologized. "Didn't mean to startle you."

They all seemed to say that these days. As if startling him might send him into a rage or something. It wouldn't. Surely they knew that. Even in the Games, he'd never been _that_ unstable. He'd killed, yes, but only one person. Only at the end. Only when he hadn't had any other choice.

Only, only, only… It was always easier that way. To think of it as _just_ one kill. Practically every Victor – with two exceptions – had more kills than he did. Raven in District Nine – she'd only killed one tribute. And Atticus…

Atticus was the exception. Everyone knew the rule. The only way to survive the Hunger Games was to kill. He shouldn't have to justify that to his family. He shouldn't have to justify that to _anyone._

Even himself.

Isaac shook his head. "You didn't startle me. I was just … just thinking. What were you saying?"

His mother forced a smile. "I was just telling Asher that there's practically no chance he's going to be picked. No one's going to choose a thirteen-year-old – not when they'd have to flip through so many pages of older kids in order to even _get_ to your name. Right, Isaac?"

Isaac nodded. "Right." He hoped it was true. Hoped that his brother's age would be enough to keep him safe. His family had already been through enough. His _mother_ had already been through enough. The district wouldn't put her through that again. His brother would be safe.

* * *

 **District Five Population:** 132,581  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 11,833

 **Mina Temple, 24  
** **Victor of the 18th Hunger Games**

"So who'd you vote for?" Atticus asked. Mina glared at him as the pair of them made their way out of the Justice Building. Didn't he have anything better to do? It was bad enough that they had to pick two children to go into the Games. Did he really want her to announce her choice in front of the whole district?

"None of your business," Mina muttered, heading back towards Victors' Village, with Atticus close behind. Atticus was barely tolerable on a good day, and this … this was _not_ a good day for anyone. And tomorrow would be even worse.

"Afraid you'll jinx it?" Atticus prodded.

"What?"

"You know, a jinx. You're afraid that if you say their names out loud, they'll be the ones who are picked tomorrow."

"That's ridiculous."

"Then why not tell me?"

Mina sighed. "If I tell you, will you leave me alone?"

"I don't think that's really an option, considering both of us will be heading for the Capitol together tomorrow, but I can try to—"

"Tonight, then," Mina growled. "If I tell you, will you leave me alone _tonight_?"

"Of course."

Mina rolled her eyes. "I voted for the mayor's kids."

Atticus almost laughed. "What? Why?"

"Because no one else will. That way, whoever gets voted in, I know _I_ had no part in it."

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Nine kills in the arena, and you're worried about having one vote on your conscience."

Mina shook her head. "I don't suppose it's something you'd understand, since you managed to weasel your way out of playing the Games properly."

Atticus fell silent. He always did, when she brought up his Games. Maybe it was a cheap shot, but it didn't seem fair. He was here, safe, in Victors' Village along with her, without a drop of blood on his hands, without a single care in the world. He hadn't killed. He'd barely fought. But here he was, safe and sound.

Maybe she shouldn't be so hard on him. Maybe she should just be glad she had any company at all in Victors' Village. But even after seventeen years of mentoring, he still didn't _get_ it. He still didn't understand. Maybe he simply _couldn't_ understand.

Mina sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped. So who did you vote for?"

Atticus shook his head. "None of your business," he muttered, and turned left, heading for his own house. Mina rolled her eyes and turned right. _Fine_. She didn't have time to worry about Atticus right now. She'd be spending enough time with him soon enough. Right now, she just wanted one more good night's sleep before the reaping.

* * *

 **District Three Population:** 184,559  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 15,026

 **Tobias Newton, 31  
** **Victor of the 8th Hunger Games**

"So who did you vote for?" Tobias asked as he and Addison headed back towards Victor's Village. The sun was beginning to set, but there were still plenty of people standing in line, waiting to cast their votes. He could only hope that enough of them would have the sense to vote for one of the older, stronger options, instead of…

"I didn't vote for your niece, if that's what you're wondering," Addison assured him. "I wouldn't worry, Toby. Deanna's what? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen," Tobias corrected. "Older than I was during my Games."

"But the district didn't vote you in," Addison pointed out.

Tobias shrugged. "Nobody stopped me from going in, either." No one had volunteered to take his place, even as he'd stood weeping onstage, hoping that somebody would.

"That's different," Addison insisted.

"Maybe," Tobias agreed. "But tell me you're not worried about your … what? Sister's husband's brother? Cousin?" Why did family trees have to be so complicated?

Addison couldn't help a nervous giggle. "Co-brother-in-law. The word you're looking for is co-brother-in-law."

Tobias shrugged. "Technically, that's four words."

"Not if you hyphenate it."

"Fine. Your co-brother-in-law. What's his name? Edward? Edison?"

"Edmund."

Close enough. "He's thirteen now, yeah?"

"Just this month, yes."

"Tell me you're not worried. Not even a little. Even though you know there's practically no chance, even though _you_ would never vote for a thirteen-year-old, tell me there's no part of you that's wondering whether someone else might."

Addison looked away. Of course she was. Just like he was. Finally, she shook her head. "Damn, it'll be good to get tomorrow over with."

Tobias shook his head. "You always say that. And then the next few weeks just end up being even worse."

"I know."

The two of them fell silent as they entered Victors' Village. District Three's only Victors. But it was only a matter of time before they got lucky again. Addison smiled a little. "Tell your niece I said hello."

Tobias smirked. "And your cousin-in-law."

"Co-brother-in-law."

Whatever. "Him, too."

Addison giggled a little. Worth it. Hearing her laugh was always worth it. "Good night," she called as she headed down the path to her own house, and he turned and headed for his. The lights were already on; his sister Felicia must have made it home before him. And Deanna would almost certainly be home from school. Maybe already tucked in bed, safe and sound. He just hoped she would still be safe tomorrow.

* * *

 **And here's our second batch of Victors. Submissions are still open until the 22nd, so there's plenty of time left. Feel free to submit more than one if you like. I could certainly use more, particularly on the male side. Right now, I've got three times as many females as males, and both those males were submitted by the same person. Districts 8 and 12 in particular could also use some attention.**


	3. High Hopes

**Trigger Warning:** Brief mentions of past abuse near the end of the second POV (Brindel's).

To be perfectly honest, I'm not very well-versed in what does and doesn't warrant a trigger warning, so I'm going to err on the side of caution. If you ever want to skip a POV and have me summarize it for you, instead, please just let me know. Stay safe, my friends.

* * *

 **Prologue Part 3  
** **Morning of the Reaping  
** **High Hopes**

* * *

 **District Four Population:** 98,401  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 9,312

 **Mags Flanagan, 31  
** **Victor of the 11th Hunger Games**

She hoped the district would have the sense to pick someone who wanted to be in the Games. There had been several groups of Careers campaigning for votes, something Mags still couldn't quite wrap her head around. She had joined up with the Career pack in the arena because it had seemed like the best way to survive, but she'd never _wanted_ to be in the Games. It was something she would never have dreamed of volunteering for.

But it was something that had happened, nonetheless. Mags hugged her father tightly before heading to the square for the reaping. He would be along later, of course; attendance at the reaping was required for all but the oldest and most feeble in the district, and her father was neither. She liked to arrive early, though. She was a Victor, and it was important for the district to see them – her, Hudson, and Coraline. It was important to remind the district that winning the Games was possible.

Possible, but far from certain. Even with the increase in Career training, there were no guarantees. Careers had won four of the last six Games, but only one of those Victors had come from District Four. Of the forty-eight tributes from District Four to enter the Games, only three had come home. Even if this year brought a fourth, that still meant that one of their tributes would die.

Which was why it was important for them to choose the best. The tributes who would actually have a chance, both physically and mentally. The ones who actually knew what they were getting into. The ones who _wanted_ it.

At least there didn't seem to be a shortage of those.

"Mags!" A voice behind her snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned to see Hudson jogging down the path from Victors' Village to the square. "You and me this year?"

Mags nodded as he approached. "Looks like. It's our turn, so unless something happens—"

"Like Misty winning the vote?"

Mags nodded. Coraline's eighteen-year-old sister had tossed around the idea of campaigning, but she had never seemed particularly serious about it. Still, being the sister of a Victor might have given her an edge – even if it was an edge she didn't want.

"If she wins, Coraline can have my spot," Mags offered. "I know how much you enjoy this."

Hudson blushed. "It's not that I _enjoy_ it, really. It's just that I like to feel like I'm doing something … something useful. You know?"

She did know. Even when their tributes didn't win, mentoring gave Victors a way to contribute to the district. A district that had stood by and watched as they were chosen for the Games. Maybe she didn't owe District Four anything. Maybe none of them did. But trying to help tributes survive a fight to the death … well, there were worse things that could be asked of a Victor.

* * *

 **District Ten Population:** 16,830  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 2,009

 **Brindel Tanner, 38  
** **Victor of the 4th Hunger Games**

She hoped they would pick better tributes than last year's. Brindel paced the district square as the crowds began to arrive. Last year, she'd been saddled with a twelve-year-old boy and a girl who was almost completely blind. It had almost been a relief when the girl had died in the bloodbath. The boy had lasted a little longer, managing to evade the Careers until the second day. But as soon as they'd found him, it was all over. He would never have stood a chance against _one_ Career, let alone six.

That hadn't been the district's choice, of course. They would never have _voted_ for either of those tributes. Would they? Brindel's eyes swept the crowd, the hundreds of people already milling about the square. Most were silent about who they had voted for, but she'd heard a few people whispering that they had voted for one of the mayor's children.

 _Idiots._ Brindel didn't like Mayor Forster any more than they did, of course. He was corrupt. Cruel. Little more than a pawn of the Capitol. But did they really think that sending his children into the Games was going to _change_ any of that? Did they really think that would make it _better_? And his children … his children were fourteen and twelve. They wouldn't stand a chance in any _other_ year. And _this_ year, when the other districts would be sending their strongest and their best…

No. No, surely people would have more sense. If a few disgruntled citizens voted for the mayor's children out of spite, surely others would balance out their vote. Surely the majority of the district would have the sense to elect someone who actually had a _chance_. Surely they realized that having a tribute win was actually _good_ for the district.

Or maybe … maybe they'd forgotten. It had been more than twenty years, after all, since her own victory. Maybe they'd simply come to see the Games as a death sentence, regardless of who entered them. Last year's tributes had been lacking, but there had been other years. Years where they'd sent perfectly capable tributes. Tributes who had still failed to come home as Victors. Maybe they'd started to resign themselves to the fact that their tributes simply wouldn't win.

Brindel snorted as she heard another whisper about the mayor's children. If that was how they'd decided to vote, that wasn't her problem. They deserved whatever tributes they got. If they weren't going to vote for someone who was Victor material, then they didn't deserve another Victor.

They'd scarcely deserved their first one. This was the same district, after all, who had buried their heads in the sand, year after year, as her father had done his work. They had ignored his shouting. They had ignored her mother's screams. They had ignored the bruises, the burns, the weeping children. Until Brindel had finally taken matters into her own hands.

Brindel ran her hands along her arms, her long sleeves hiding the scars. The scars from the lava of the volcano during her Games. And the scars from before. From the man she had called her father. The man she'd finally had the power to cut out of her life. The man no one in the district would miss.

* * *

 **District Seven Population:** 23,995  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 2,549

 **Filbert Kosipo, 23  
** **Victor of the 17th Hunger Games**

He hoped his district had made the right choice. Filbert knew who _he_ had voted for, of course. Two of the older, stronger lumberjacks who seemed like they might be able to handle themselves in the Games. That wasn't a guarantee, of course, that they _would_ be able to. Sometimes the tributes who _seemed_ like they would be able to handle it were the first to break down, or were targeted because they seemed like a threat. Maybe it wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

And it had seemed like a better idea than picking a name at random, or choosing someone who seemed to deserve it. Because no one deserved the Games. Even the stronger tributes, even the Careers who volunteered of their own free will … even they didn't deserve what happened in the arena. All he could do was try to choose someone who might be able to win. Someone who might join him as a Victor.

Filbert shook his head as he paced across his living room floor, waiting for Hazel. She had turned seventeen a few weeks ago, and was understandably nervous. As one of the older teens, she was probably more likely to be picked. And people might assume that since he had made it out of the Games, she might have a chance. He'd been only fifteen, after all, when he'd won. She was two years older. She might be able to win…

 _Stop it._ They probably wouldn't pick her. His parents had been through enough. His family had already done their part for the district. What more could the district want from them?

Hazel seemed paler than usual as she finally emerged from her room. "Ready?" Filbert asked, but he already knew the answer. She wasn't ready. He had never been ready for the reaping, so why should he expect his little sister to be prepared? He had made it out of the Hunger Games alive, but he still couldn't keep her safe. He couldn't protect her – not from this.

"No, but we should probably get going," Hazel offered nervously. "I don't want to know what Vita would do if her only Victor showed up late for the reaping."

Filbert chuckled a little. District Seven's escort was a bit testy sometimes, but only because she was itching for a promotion. She'd been in District Seven for … what? Twelve years now? Thirteen? And she only had one Victor to show for it. One Victor, and a whole lot of disappointment.

Filbert glanced at the clock. They weren't going to be late. But if Hazel wanted to leave now, he certainly wasn't going to argue. Their parents would catch up later.

The square was already filling with people by the time he and Hazel arrived. Filbert gave his sister a hug before heading for the stage while she took her place with the other seventeen-year-olds. There were so many people already. He always forgot just how many people there _were_ in District Seven. So many people. So many teenagers. So many potential tributes. They wouldn't really pick his sister, would they?

Probably not. They would probably choose someone else. Someone whose family _hadn't_ already been through the stress of having a child in the Games. Someone who would have a chance at coming home. Someone who might be sitting onstage with him next year.

* * *

 **District Twelve Population:** 7,793  
 **Reaping Age Population:** 685

 **Simeon Vesper, 62  
** **Capitol Mentor**

He hoped the people of District Twelve would have the sense to pick some stronger tributes this year. It wasn't their fault, of course, that last year's tributes had been a pair of starving youngsters from the Seam. Last year, they hadn't had a choice. Surely this year, with their pick of the teenagers in the district, they would have the sense to choose someone who might actually come home. Someone who might actually be able to provide District Twelve with its first Victor.

Simeon glanced over at District Twelve's escort, Valerie, as the train creaked to a stop. What would he do, if District Twelve finally earned itself a Victor? Would he be out of a job? Maybe. Or maybe he could simply switch to escorting, as Canton had in District Six.

Canton, of course, had gotten lucky. He'd brought home a Victor on his very first try. District Eleven had followed, and then District One. Year after year. Capitol mentor after Capitol mentor had brought home a Victor, leaving only Simeon when, five years ago, District Eight had finally earned its first Victor.

Now he was the only one left. Twelve was the only district without a Victor. But it was only a matter of time. Maybe this would be the year they got lucky. Maybe being able to choose their own tributes was just the edge a district like Twelve needed. There were capable teenagers in the district, without a doubt. It just so happened that the poorer, scrawnier kids who had to take tesserae to keep from starving were usually more likely to be picked.

But not this year. Most people in the districts probably saw the Quell twist as a curse. A burden for both themselves and the children who were chosen. But it was really an opportunity. A chance to choose their own fate.

He could only hope they had chosen wisely.

"It still smells," Valerie whispered as they stepped off the train. He had told her last year that she would get used to it. That it wouldn't smell so bad the next year. But the truth was that the air in District Twelve would never quite be pleasant for a Capitolite. After twenty-five years, he still wasn't used to it. The smell of coal dust wouldn't leave him for at least a few weeks, no matter how often he showered or changed his clothes. It was something that just stuck with a person.

Simeon shook his head. He couldn't imagine living like this. Looking at this place, it was no wonder District Twelve's tributes were so often slaughtered early on in the Games. No wonder that District Twelve was the only district without a Victor. A fifth-place finish three years ago was the closest he'd come since the seventh Games. In an ordinary year, Twelve's tributes simply didn't stand a chance.

But this wasn't an ordinary year. This year was special. The First Quarter Quell. The twenty-fifth anniversary of the Games. It was a year for the unusual. The extraordinary. And maybe that meant that it was finally Twelve's chance to shine.

* * *

 **And without further ado, here's the tribute list! I ended up with more than 24 submissions, but every submitter got at least one tribute in, so I consider that a win. If your tribute didn't end up in your preferred district and you'd like to change anything in their backstory based on the district they ended up in, please let me know.**

 **Also, there's a shiny new tribute page up on the website, which is over at castaways25 . weebly . com. I did censor one tribute's quote Battlestar Galactica style because I'm trying to keep this at a T rating. If you're not happy with your tribute's picture/quote/mentor or if I misspelled your tribute's name or something, please let me know. (If, however, your tribute is in District 6/7/8/10/12 and you're unhappy with your mentor, you're out of luck.)** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 **District One  
** Clementine Acres  
Argent Gaunt

 **District Two  
** Valkyrie Kentwell  
Vino Bossini

 **District Three  
** Hesper Coventry  
Arirang "Ari" Zeno

 **District Four  
** Mora Loch-Tiller  
Kekoa Palu

 **District Five  
** Samantha "Sam" Hacka  
Isaiah "Snap" Shelby

 **District Six  
** Finch Ares  
Zion Harper

 **District Seven  
** Narra Tarot  
Basil Larch

 **District Eight  
** Dustine "Dusty" Foreman  
Selwyn Trembal

 **District Nine  
** Brindle Young  
Ludwig Ophiuchus

 **District Ten  
** Ellery "Elle" Forster  
Barnabas Ford

 **District Eleven  
** Apple Oxon  
Ethan Vetch

 **District Twelve  
** Sienna Ledger  
Derek Overholt


	4. District One: Promises to Keep

**District One Reaping  
** **Promises to Keep**

* * *

 _5 days before the reaping_

 **Clementine Acres, 18**

 _Knock, knock._ Clementine braced herself as an old woman opened the door of the district community home. In an instant, she took in the sight. The woman's hair was grey, and she was hunched over. Several small children trailed behind her, and the stench that came wafting out of the building almost made Clementine take a step back.

Almost. But not quite. She was learning. Days on the campaign trail – ever since the quell twist had been announced – had taught her a thing or two about diplomacy, and more about math. This old woman's vote counted as much as anyone else's – more, if she told her friends or family or had helpers … which she didn't seem to have too many of, but, still. Every vote counted.

"What do you want?" the old woman asked, her voice tense. She was clearly in the middle of five different things, each more important than the last.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Clementine began, although she clearly had every intention of doing just that. "I'm here to offer my help."

"Help?" the old woman scoffed. "You, with your pretty little face and your fancy clothes, you want to help little old me?"

 _No, but if it gets me elected…_

Clementine forced a smile. "I want to help this whole district. It's Mrs. Grady, isn't it?"

It was. She knew every name on this block. She'd memorized them, one by one, from the maps her father had given her. As one of the district's housing officials, he had access to all sorts of information. Information that others might consider trivial, but that could mean votes now that the Games were on the line.

The woman grunted a little. "That's me."

"Mrs. Grady, District One has had two Victors in the past two years."

"And? Fat lot of good it's done people like me."

Clementine nodded. "With respect, ma'am, that's exactly my point. Too little of the reward for the district makes its way to the people who deserve it most – people like you who are truly serving our district. Me? I run around all day trying to hit people with fancy sticks. You're raising the next generation of Panem. It's people like you who deserve a reward."

"Damn—er, darn right," Mrs. Grady corrected herself, shooing a few of the little ones behind her off to the side.

"And I intend to see that you get it," Clementine continued. "Mrs. Grady—"

"Amelia, please."

 _Score._ "Amelia, I'm campaigning to be District One's tribute this year. And I promise, if I win, a generous amount of those winnings will make their way to those who need it most. Those who _deserve_ it most."

" _If_ you win."

"That's right."

"What's your name, child?"

"Clementine Acres. It'll be one of the first names on your ballot." That was mere luck, of course. The ballots were going to be alphabetical, putting her name near the top of the list by default. But luck was part of the Games, so it was only fair that it should play a part in who ended up in them…

Mrs. Grady nodded. "I'll remember the name. Will you come in and have a cup of tea, perhaps?"

Clementine fought to keep from cringing as she followed the old woman inside. The entire place smelled. At least her counterparts who were campaigning in the wealthier, more influential parts of the district didn't have to put up with this.

But there were so many of them. They would split the vote of the wealthy and powerful. If she'd campaigned in those parts of the district, she would get only a share of the vote. But here … she was probably the only person who had come here. But this woman's vote counted just as much as anyone else's. Just as much as her father's. Just as much as the mayor's. This time, it wasn't power or influence or prestige that would determine who entered the Games. It was numbers. Cold, hard numbers. And she had always been good with those.

* * *

 _3 days before the reaping_

 **Argent Gaunt, 18**

The crowd was already cheering. Argent smirked as he wiped the sweat from his brow. His opponent was tiring. Argent had already gotten a few good licks in, with only a minor cut to his lip to show for his trouble. One more swing, and his opponent would be done for.

His opponent. Argent wasn't even sure what the boy's name was, and, after the beating he'd taken today, no one else was likely to remember it, either. But they would remember him. Argent Gaunt, the only undefeated contender for this year's tribute spot.

Argent ducked beneath his opponent's next blow, then landed his fist squarely on the boy's jaw, dropping him to the pavement of the district square. Any other year, matches would be limited to the academy grounds. But this year, given the quell twist, the trainers at the academy had relaxed the rules a little. If the people of the district were going to vote for their tributes, then they had a right to see them compete.

There were some, of course, who had chosen not to participate in the matches, which were less organized than usual and carried a greater risk of someone actually getting hurt. There were Careers who had decided that it wasn't worth the risk of getting hurt this soon before the Games, and that they would have better luck campaigning door to door, begging for votes. But begging wasn't his style. And it wasn't what people would remember.

People would remember _this._

Argent sauntered over to his opponent, dealing a swift kick to the boy's stomach. "All right, all right!" the boy gasped. "I yield."

 _Wimp._ He would never have lasted in the Games, anyway. Argent would be doing him a favor by completely destroying his chances. One kick, and then another, landed on the boy's prone body. "Help!" the boy called, but no one did. The crowd was cheering. They knew they were looking at a fighter. Someone who would have the guts to grind his opponents into a pulp, without any sympathy or remorse. They knew they were looking at a Victor.

And a Victor didn't stop until his job was done.

"All right, break it up!" A voice cut through the crowd, and Argent turned to see one of their Victors, Ruby Spinel, making her way through the crowd. "I think you've made your point."

Argent spat in the boy's face. "I was just getting to the good part."

"Back off."

Argent took a step closer. "Make me, bitch."

But instead of stepping closer or insulting him, Ruby only laughed. "I don't have to prove anything to you, Argent. I already won the Games. You? You'll be lucky if you make it in, after what you did today."

Argent scoffed. "Why? The Capitol loves a good show. You should know. The only reason you won was because of your sponsors."

"And you think you're going to get any with that attitude?" Ruby nodded to a few Peacekeepers who had been standing nearby, who quickly scooped up the boy Argent had beaten and dragged him off as the crowd began to disperse. "I bet you didn't even bother to tell the crowd your name."

 _Shit._ "Argent Gaunt!" he called as the crowd continued to disappear. "My name is Argent Gaunt! Your next Victor!"

Their next Victor. But in order for that to happen, he needed to be elected. They needed to vote for him. They needed to _choose_ him. What if Ruby was right? What if he'd gone too far?

No. No, this was what they had wanted to see. They had been cheering him on, after all. They had _wanted_ him to pummel the other boy. And it had felt … good. Their approval, their applause. Was that what it would be like in the arena?

Maybe. But first he had to get there. Argent wiped the sweat from his forehead and headed back towards the training academy. He still had time. He would show them. He was made for the Games. It was all he had ever wanted. And it was all he would ever need.

* * *

 _Reaping Day_

 **Jerica Camlet, 19  
** **Victor of the 24th Hunger Games**

The square was already humming with energy when they arrived. Jerica grinned at her twin sister Jasmine and their little brother Jacinth, who was decked out in his very best suit and tie just in case. Just in case enough people had voted for him. He'd been campaigning, along with what seemed like half the Careers at the academy. Sure, people would know his name. But he was only fifteen. Only two fifteen-year-olds had ever won the Games, and no Career that young had ever been chosen to volunteer. He certainly wasn't the volunteer the trainers would have selected this year.

But that didn't mean anything – not this time. This time, it was up to the district, and the thought of having three Camlet Victors in a row might be enough to persuade some of them. But probably not enough. Jacinth would probably have to wait another year or two. Or even three. He had time. And that was probably for the best.

Jerica gave him a quick hug before he headed off to join the other fifteen-year-olds. Things like that had a way of working out for the best. She had been upset when Jasmine had been chosen to volunteer two years ago, but everything had worked out in the end. She had volunteered the year after, with Jasmine as her mentor. The Capitol had lapped it up, and she had emerged victorious from the arena, making District One the first district with back-to-back Victors.

Ruby was already waiting for them onstage, smiling out at the crowd as they continued to cheer. "How's your brother?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Hopeful. I guess we'll find out soon. We voted for him, but—"

"I didn't," Ruby admitted. "No offense, but…"

Jerica nodded, taking a seat next to her sister. "None taken. Worried he'd take your place as the district's youngest Victor?"

"Things were different ten years ago. Only three or four Careers in the arena, most of us self-trained. I was sixteen, but I was one of the best-prepared. He's not."

"Preparation isn't everything," came a voice from behind them. "There's something to be said for natural talent. Adaptability. And that's something that can't be taught." Angelo slid into a seat next to Ruby. "Your brother's a sweet kid, but he doesn't have the knack."

Jerica shook her head. "I take it you didn't vote for him, either."

"No. Sponsors might keep him alive for a while, but the pack would turn on him like a bunch of hungry wolves once he outlived his usefulness. In a couple years, he might squeak by on his family name and good looks, but that won't be enough this year. Probably won't even be enough to get him voted in."

Jerica leaned back in her chair. "I guess we'll find out."

"I guess we will," Angelo agreed as District One's escort, Leticia Clemens, joined them onstage, her mechanical eye patch glistening in the sunlight. Her story – which Jerica wasn't entirely sure she believed – was that she'd lost an eye in a rebel attack during the war, and that she'd had it replaced with a camera that continued to record even while she was sleeping. It seemed a bit outlandish, but compared to some of the other things that happened in the Capitol…

"Helloooooo, District One!" Leticia crooned as the crowd continued to roar. Leticia held up her hands for quiet, but it still took a few minutes for the noise to die down enough for her to continue. "Welcome to the very first reaping for the very first Quarter Quell!"

More applause. "You know what I love about this district?" Leticia continued. "You've taken something that was intended as a punishment, and you've turned it into an opportunity. The Games might have begun as a consequence for the rebellion, but you've transformed them into so much more, and you have four magnificent Victors to show for it. Now … it's time to find out who might be your fifth! Mayor Carnelian?"

Jasper Carnelian was beaming as he handed Leticia a pair of envelopes. Envelopes that held the results of the election. District One had won two Games in a row. In one of those envelopes could be the name of a tribute who would win them a third.

Leticia quickly opened the first envelope and removed a single slip of paper. "And the female tribute that _you_ have chosen is … Clementine Acres!"

Immediately, a whoop of excitement rose from the eighteen-year-old section, and a flurry of movement drew everyone's attention to a girl in a light yellow sundress receiving a hug from one friend and a pat on the back from another. She was tall and lean, with long, blonde hair, light skin, and bright blue eyes that were shining with excitement as she disentangled herself from her friends and made her way to the stage, trading high-fives with a few of the other teens and grinning from ear to ear.

Jerica nodded, giving a silent thumbs-up as Clementine flashed a smile in her direction. Leticia motioned her closer. "Congratulations, Clementine! Is there anything you'd like to say to the district."

Clementine nodded. "Thank you. Thank you for choosing me as this year's tribute. I promise that I'll make you all proud, and when I come back, I plan to repay your trust in full."

Jerica smiled as the crowd continued to cheer. Clementine wasn't the trainee she'd voted for, but she was certainly capable. Only a year behind Jerica and her sister at the academy, their paths had crossed often enough, and she certainly wouldn't want to find herself facing Clementine in a fight. She just hoped that Jacinth wouldn't have to…

Jerica turned her attention back to Leticia, who was already opening the second envelope. "And the male tribute you have selected is … Argent Gaunt!"

There were no cheers this time – not from the teens, at least. But the crowd broke into applause as a boy in a blood red suit stepped out from the edge of the edge of the eighteen-year-old section. He was tall and muscular, with pale skin, curly blonde hair, and icy blue eyes. There was a satisfied smile on his face as he strode up the stairs two by two, taking his place beside Clementine.

"Congratulations, Argent!" Leticia beamed. "Any words for the district?"

Argent crossed his arms. "I'm just glad they made the right choice."

Leticia clapped him on the back, undeterred. "A man of few words, then. District One, your tributes! Clementine Acres and Argent Gaunt!"

The crowd roared as the pair of them shook hands. As the crowd began to disperse, Jerica caught a glimpse of Jacinth, shaking his head. _In a few years, little brother._ Maybe. Or maybe Angelo was right. Maybe he simply didn't have what it took.

But that was a problem for another time. Right now, they had another matter to sort out. Usually, mentors would be determined beforehand, along with the volunteer selection, but that hadn't been an option this year. "Flip for first pick?" Clementine offered, removing a coin from the pocket of her dress.

Argent scoffed. "Don't need to. Take your pick."

Clementine shrugged, then turned to Jerica. "May I have the honor of being your first tribute?"

Angelo smiled a little. "The cameras are off, Clementine."

Clementine relaxed a little. "All right, then. I think it would play well in the Capitol. Jasmine mentors you, you mentor me, we continue the trend of winning…"

Jerica chuckled. "Sold. You've got yourself a mentor."

Jasmine nodded. "Argent? Would you like me or Ruby—"

"I'll take Angelo."

Angelo raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Problem?"

"Not at all. It's just that I'm not a Career."

"You're the most experienced mentor."

Angelo nodded. It was hard to argue with that. "All right, then. I'll see you on the train." As Argent and Clementine were led away to the Justice Building, he turned to Ruby. "If you wouldn't mind looking in on Uncle Andreas now and then while I'm gone…"

Ruby nodded. "Consider it done."

"I'm sure he didn't mean any disrespect to you or Jasmine."

"I'm sure he did. But that's not important. He's all yours." She shrugged. "Maybe he'll actually listen to you."

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18**

At least he hadn't bothered listening to Ruby. Argent smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair, waiting. He wasn't expecting anyone. Not the parents who had abandoned him to the budding training academy so many years ago. Certainly none of the trainers or the hopeful Careers-in-training he'd defeated to win this spot. Ruby had wanted him to stop. To find a better way to win votes than beating his rivals to a pulp in the square.

 _Idiot._ They were all idiots. His plan had worked perfectly, and now here he was. A tribute in the first Quarter Quell. Soon, he would be District One's next Victor. And then…

And then. He hadn't really thought much about what would come next. Training for the Games had been his life for so many years. After they were finished, what was left? Training other Careers, maybe, like Ruby – except better. Ruby, Jasmine, Jerica – they had all won at least in part because of their good looks, their charm, their appeal to the sponsors. They had played the Capitol's game, and they had played it well.

But he could play it even better. He didn't need to fawn and fuss over the Capitol in order to win. He could give them what they really wanted to see: blood. Blood and gore like they had never witnessed before. As long as he gave them that, they wouldn't care about the rest. Not that he was lacking in "the rest." But he didn't _need_ to appeal to them in order to win.

Angelo understood that, at least. He hadn't won because of his good looks. He hadn't won because of sponsors, which hadn't appeared until a few Games later. He had won because he was a predator. A hunter. And he would certainly be a better mentor than any of the other three.

And if he wasn't … well, it wasn't as if he was really losing anything. Wasn't as if anyone could give him advice that would outweigh his years of training for the Games. He'd spent years studying – studying not only weapons, but with survival skills and tactics, as well. He was as prepared as he could be. As prepared as _anyone_ could be. And that would have to be enough.

* * *

 **Clementine Acres, 18**

"Looks like all the campaigning paid off," Odette remarked as she and Amber, two of Clementine's fellow trainees, joined her in the small Justice Building room. "Remember, the lemonade was my idea."

Clementine grinned. During the voting, she and her friends had stood outside the Justice Building, offering cool drinks to those who were waiting in line to vote. Maybe it wasn't much. Or maybe it had tipped the balance. Voters wanted a tribute who could fight, yes. But they also wanted a Victor who was proud to support the district. Someone who actually _cared_ about the citizens they were representing in the Games.

That had been enough to earn her a spot. Now it was up to her to prove that they'd made the right choice. That she could be just as capable in the arena as she had been campaigning. Getting _into_ the Games was one thing. Winning them would be another matter entirely.

But that was what she'd signed up for. What she'd wanted since … well, not as long as some. She'd started training mostly because her friends had been interested. She hadn't really expected to like it, to be that _good_ at it.

But she was. Year after year, more of her friends had dropped out of training. Decided that it wasn't for them, that they weren't ready to risk their lives for a chance at victory. And she respected that. There was no guarantee of winning, after all. Only four of District One's tributes had ever come back alive.

Did she really have it in her to be the fifth?

Clementine smiled as she soaked it all in – her friends' praise, her parents' hugs, her trainers' last-minute advice. There wasn't a choice now. She was a tribute in the Hunger Games. She _had_ to do this – not for them, but for her. There was only one way to find out if she really had it in her to win. And that was worth any risk.


	5. District Two: Family Matters

**District Two Reaping  
** **Family Matters**

* * *

 _Two weeks before the reaping_

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17**

There was so much excitement in the room. Valkyrie smiled as her four younger sisters huddled together, watching the screen, waiting eagerly for the Quarter Quell announcement. Their parents were watching just as intently, wondering what the quell might be, how it might affect this year's Games. How it might affect her chances. The results of the trainees' tests hadn't been announced yet, but there were rumors. Rumors that she might have been the one chosen to volunteer this year.

Valkyrie drummed her fingers on her leg. She couldn't tell them the truth. Not yet. She could wait until after the twist was announced. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe the twist would be something that would disqualify her from volunteering. Maybe she wouldn't have to tell them – at least not until next year. Maybe she wouldn't have to tell them that she didn't _want_ to volunteer.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy training. She enjoyed the exercise, the feeling she got from a long run or a successful bout, the thrill of defeating a tough opponent. But in training, a defeat was only that – a defeat. She'd never had to _kill._ Most of the time, the trainers were careful to arrange it so that they didn't even injure each other – not seriously, at least. They didn't want any of their prized pupils to lose their district a chance at victory because of a stupid accident.

But the Games … that was something else entirely. People didn't just get hurt. They _died._ Twenty-three of them each year. Children, dying for … what? A chance at glory? The Capitol's amusement? It was sick. Twisted. And she wanted no part of it.

But her parents…

Her mother, really. Her mother was one of the trainers at the academy, and would never understand Valkyrie's hesitation. The other tributes were going to die, anyway. That was what she always said. If they didn't have it in them to be a Victor, then they deserved whatever end they got.

Valkyrie ran her fingers through her hair, still damp with sweat from her last session. Sometimes, she was convinced her mother simply regretted not volunteering herself when she'd had the chance. She had been Valkyrie's age when the Games had begun. For the first few years, though, there hadn't been many volunteers. It hadn't been clear until the third Games that volunteering was even _allowed_. By that time, her mother had been too old. Her chance was gone.

Maybe she regretted that. Maybe she was trying, through Valkyrie, to recapture the chance at victory that she'd never had. And for years, Valkyrie had let her dream, because where was the harm? It wasn't as if she would ever be good enough to volunteer. It wasn't as if she would be chosen…

But now she _was_ good enough. And she _might_ be chosen. She was seventeen, the same age as two of their district's Victors when they'd won. If she didn't want to do this, she would have to tell them – and she would have to tell them _soon._

But not yet. She could wait until after the announcement. She could wait…

"Good evening, Panem." Valkyrie tensed as President Chaplin's face appeared on the screen. His voice was calm – almost solemn. An odd contrast to the energy of the crowd behind him on the screen, waiting to hear what he was about to say. He held an envelope in his hands. "Twenty-five years ago, when the Games were founded, we decreed that every quarter century, we would hold a special Games. A Quarter Quell, to remind the districts of the horrors of the rebellion – and why we must never allow them to happen again."

Slowly, he slid the envelope open and removed a sheet of paper. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Games, as a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their choice to initiate violence, each district will hold an election to select its own tributes."

The crowd erupted into applause. Beside her, her sisters were whispering, already wondering who the district might pick. But Valkyrie finally relaxed a little. She wouldn't have to tell her parents, after all. She wouldn't have to volunteer. All she had to do was _not_ get picked. With all the trainees who would surely be scrambling about, anxious to convince people to vote for them, it would be easy enough for her name to get lost in the shuffle.

She would still have to tell them, of course, but not yet. Now wasn't the right time, and now there was no rush. Now she could wait until next year.

* * *

 _Thirteen days before the reaping_

 **Vino Bossini, 18**

His siblings probably had their campaigns all planned out already. Only one day after the quarter quell announcement, and it seemed as though everyone and their brother was begging for votes. Esperanza was seventeen, and Corazon was only sixteen, but he'd seen trainees as young as fifteen or even fourteen making signs and knocking on doors.

Not that any of the younger ones were likely to be chosen, of course, but the trainers couldn't stop them from asking. And they didn't seem particularly interested in _trying_ to stop anyone from campaigning. Apparently, they either realized it wouldn't work or had decided to trust the district to make the right choice.

"Vino!" Esperanza called from the other side of the room. Vino shot another arrow, then set his bow down and made his way across the training room to his siblings. Esperanza was smiling. "We've got it all figured out."

 _Of course you do._ "I'm surprised it took you this long," Vino shrugged. "You see, when two people love each other in a special way—"

Esperanza cut him off with a punch on the shoulder. "Be _serious._ "

Corazon shook his head. "She's right. If we don't play this smart, two of us could end up being voted into the Games."

It was all Vino could do to keep from laughing. _That_ was what they were worried about? "You and me?" Vino smirked. "I don't think that's likely."

Esperanza glared. "No, but you and me? Or me and Corazon? That's possible. Maybe not _likely_ , but possible."

Vino leaned back against the wall. "So don't campaign." But he knew even before they shook their heads that neither of them would consider that an option. They'd always been too competitive for their own good.

And maybe they were right to be worried. When the trainers chose the volunteers, they were careful not to select siblings – for obvious reasons. No one wanted to kill their brother or sister in the arena. Well, maybe _some_ of them did, but not the sort of tributes the trainers would choose in the first place. But this year, without that sort of communication between the people who had the choice…

"So you want me to do … what?" Vino prompted.

It was Corazon who answered. "We want you to campaign."

Vino shrugged. "Sure. For which one of you?"

"For yourself," Esperanza answered. "We want _you_ to win."

Vino raised an eyebrow. "Let me get this straight. You two have spent the last few years competing with me, wanting nothing more than to get to volunteer ahead of me. And now, suddenly, you want _me_ in the Games instead? Why?"

"Because it'll be good for us, too," Corazon admitted. "Look what happened in District One. The first district with back-to-back Victors, and they were sisters. If _you_ win, the trainers will _have_ to choose Esperanza to volunteer next. The Capitol will love it. And if she wins, then they'll have to choose me. Just think of it! Three Bossini Victors!"

"Or three Bossini corpses," Vino pointed out.

Esperanza shook her head. "You don't think you can do it?"

"Of course I do!" Vino insisted, his voice a bit louder than he'd intended. Several of the other trainees turned to look. _Great._ "Fine. I'll do it." Even if he agreed to campaign, there was no guarantee he'd be going into the Games. He probably wouldn't even win the vote, and he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. Besides, it might be fun.

Corazon was beaming. "Great! I'll get started on some signs."

"I'll see who else might want to help us," Esperanza offered. "There have to be plenty of girls who would want you as a district partner."

Vino rolled his eyes as they hurried off. Sure, they were excited now, but how would they react in a couple weeks if he lost the vote?

How would they react if he _won_?

Vino shook his head. That wasn't his problem – not yet, at least. At the very least, he had some good news to give his parents. They'd been pushing him for years to take his training more seriously, and he was about to start campaigning to be voted into the Hunger Games. It didn't get much more serious than that.

* * *

 _Reaping Day_

 **Clint Breckin, 21  
** **Victor of the 21st Hunger Games**

Clint was the last Victor to arrive in the square. He always seemed to be the last to arrive. Even the year he'd volunteered, he'd nearly been late for the reaping because his mother simply couldn't stop _fussing_ over him. Even now that there was no danger that he'd be killed, she wouldn't stop hugging him before their departure for the Capitol. As if she was still worried that he wouldn't be coming back.

Maybe that was part of the reason he'd volunteered to mentor every year since his own victory. This was his fourth year mentoring, and it was still better than watching the Games at home. His mother would fret over their district's pair of tributes, yes, but she also cried when the others died. He could only imagine how worked up she'd been during his Games.

 _That doesn't matter now._ He was alive. He was leaving for the Capitol, yes, but he would be back in a few weeks – guaranteed. And this year was a Quarter Quell. There would be plenty to distract his mother from the blood and the gore. The other Victors would keep an eye on her, even if he couldn't.

"You're late," Tabatha muttered as he joined the other Victors onstage.

"Not quite," Clint pointed out. A few teenagers were still trying to squeeze into their sections as their escort, Marius Straton, took the stage.

The crowd immediately grew silent. Marius couldn't have been much more than thirty, but his hair was dyed a light silver – almost white. But it wasn't his hair that caught most people's attention. It was his hands, intricately tattooed to look like a skeleton's bones. A reminder, perhaps, that those were the hands that drew names out of the reaping bowl – hands that called children to their deaths.

Or, at least, that might have been true once. But in District Two, the names that were drawn from the reaping bowl rarely belonged to the tributes who entered the Games. That hadn't happened for years, and not at all since Clint's victory. Since his Games, there had been two volunteers each from Districts One, Two, and Four every year. Like clockwork. Careers were becoming a staple of the Games. It was a wonder the other districts didn't follow their lead.

Well, maybe not _too_ much of a wonder. Not every district had the proper time or resources to form training academies of their own. In other districts, where most were struggling simply to get by, actually training for the Games was probably too far out of reach. They were lucky here in District Two. But sometimes luck was part of the Game…

"It's wonderful to be back here in District Two," Marius began, his grin a stark contrast to his skeletal hands. "This is going to be a very special year for all of us – I can just _feel_ it."

Clint hid a smile. Marius said the same thing every year. And maybe it was true. After all, even in the years they didn't bring home a Victor, at least they'd put up a good fight. They'd put on a good show. Maybe Career training didn't guarantee a Victor every year, but it did guarantee that the people of District Two wouldn't look like inept fools in front of the Capitol. And that was worth _something_ , at least.

"I believe Mayor Pennysworth has the results of the election." Marius turned to the mayor, who nodded and handed over a pair of envelopes. "Let's start with the ladies, shall we?" Marius grinned, sliding the first envelope open. "District Two, your female tribute this year is … Valkyrie Kentwell!"

After only a moment, a girl in a long, black dress stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section. She was a little shorter than average, with medium brown skin, wavy shoulder-length black hair, and chocolate brown eyes. Clint recognized her from the training center – one of the more promising contenders, and the daughter of one of the trainers.

Maybe her mother had had a hand in campaigning for her, because the girl certainly didn't look like she'd expected to be chosen. And she didn't look particularly _happy_ about it, either. She wasn't crying by any means, but she certainly wasn't smiling as she made her way to the stage, her head held high. "Congratulations, Valkyrie!" Marius beamed, but the girl said nothing.

Undeterred, Marius opened the second envelope. "And joining Miss Kentwell will be our male tribute … Vino Bossini!"

Immediately, a few shouts of "Yes!" rang out from the younger sections. A boy stepped out of the eighteen-year-old section, and was immediately joined by a younger boy and girl, clapping him on the back and cheering him on. The boy was a little over six feet tall, lean and muscular, with caramel skin, dyed honey-brown hair, and hazel eyes. He smiled, ruffling the boy's hair and giving the girl a pat on the shoulder as he made his way to the stage, immediately holding out his hand to Valkyrie.

It was a moment before she shook it, but Vino hardly seemed to notice. "Well, I guess congratulations are in order."

"For both of you," Marius agreed. "District Two, one of these tributes could very well be your next Victor! Let's give them a hand!"

The applause was thunderous. Clint glanced over at Cliff, who had agreed to mentor with him this year. "Preference?"

Cliff shrugged. It generally didn't matter much which mentor was assigned to which tribute, since they generally ended up working together anyway. "I'll take the girl," Cliff offered. "As long as that's all right with you, Valkyrie."

Valkyrie nodded stiffly as the crowd began to disperse. Clint turned to Vino. "Looks like you're with me, then."

Vino nodded. "Fine with me. We'll probably be working together anyway, right?"

"As long as neither of you plans to take off on your own," Clint agreed. "But we can discuss strategy later. I'm sure your families will want to see you."

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18**

At least his family finally seemed to be happy with something he'd done. Vino's parents, Esperanza, and Corazon were already waiting for him in the Justice Building. "I can't believe it," his father admitted, his grin practically hiding the rest of his face. "You did it. You really did it. You're a tribute."

Vino couldn't help smiling in return. He hadn't really believed, two weeks ago, that his siblings would be able to muster enough votes to get him into the Games. But now that they had, it was all up to him. They believed he could do this, and, apparently, most of the district agreed with them. Or, at least, enough of the district for him to win the vote. So who was he to say otherwise?

"We're so proud of you, Vino," his mother insisted. "Just think. After you win, you can mentor Esperanza next year."

"And then she can mentor Corazon," Vino finished. That was the idea. Not his idea – not his plan – but that didn't mean he couldn't be excited. There was a certain thrill to all of this, even if it might not have been what he would have chosen on his own. His family believed him him. His family was _proud_ of him.

That would have to be enough.

Besides, how hard could it be? He'd always done well at the academy. And he would have Clint helping him. And Cliff helping his district partner. The first Career Victor and a member of the first full Career pack. He couldn't ask for anyone better to be giving him advice.

But, at the end of the day, _he_ would be the one in the arena. He would be the one fighting and killing other tributes. He was the one who would have to worry about what other surprises the Gamemakers might have in store for the Quell. They hadn't said anything about extra tricks, but would a twist in the reaping really be the only thing they had up their sleeves?

Vino gave his mother a hug, then his father, then each of his siblings. Whatever the Gamemakers had up their sleeves, he could handle it. He would have to. He had to come back – back to his parents, to his brother and sister, to his life here in District Two. And for that, he was willing to get his hands dirty. For that, he was willing to do anything.

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17**

Valkyrie had no doubt her mother was responsible for this. And her mother didn't even bother trying to hide it as she entered Valkyrie's room in the Justice Building, followed by the rest of the family. "Congratulations!" they all seemed to shout at once. "Were you surprised, honey?" her mother asked.

"That's one word for it," Valkyrie answered vaguely. "I take it you put in a good word for me in the right places?"

Her mother nodded. "Of course. I knew you'd decided to let the eighteen-year-olds have their shot – and very nice of you, too – but … well, it's a Quarter Quell. And you're ready. You _deserve_ this."

Maybe. Maybe she deserved it. She'd certainly put in enough work to be ready for the Games. But she didn't _want_ it. She had never wanted it. But her mother hadn't known that.

She _couldn't_ have known that. Valkyrie had never worked up the courage to tell her. And the only person she could blame for that was herself. But telling her now wouldn't do any good. She would have to pretend. Pretend to want this as badly as any of the other Careers. Because if they caught even a whiff of doubt, they might not accept her into the pack. And without the pack…

No Career since Hudson had won without being part of a pack. And he hadn't even been a proper Career. In every way that counted now, she was. She had the training. She had the experience. Maybe she didn't particularly want to _kill_ , but she wanted to survive. And from this moment on, those were the same thing.

Valkyrie threw her arms around her mother. "Thank you. I couldn't be happier." It was a lie, but it was a lie they needed to hear right now. And it was better than the truth. If they knew this wasn't what she wanted, what would they do if the worst happened? Would they blame themselves? She didn't want that.

Of course, she didn't want to die at all, but it was still a possibility. Twenty-four tributes went into the Games. Only one came out. And if she wanted it to be her, she would have to start acting like a Career.

* * *

 **Just wanted to let you know that there's now an escort page on the website.**


	6. District Three: Live and Learn

**District Three Reaping  
** **Live and Learn**

* * *

 _Two months before the reaping_

 **Arirang "Ari" Zeno, 17**

Mr. Bracewell had been staring at the blackboard for two and a half minutes so far, searching for his error. Ari held back a smile. He certainly wouldn't want anyone in his class to think he _enjoyed_ seeing their teacher so befuddled. But there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that he could relieve the tension in the room with just a few words. All he had to do was point out a simple error.

Slowly, careful not to appear too eager, Ari raised his hand. "Sir?"

Mr. Bracewell turned immediately. "Found it, Ari?"

"Yes, Sir. Second row, third column, back in step two. The seven should be negative."

"Aha!" Mr. Bracewell beamed. "Right you are. Good catch." He hurried to fix the error, while the rest of the class scribbled down the correction in their notes. "Let's see. That would make this a _positive_ twenty-eight, so when we subtracted the thirty from the third row, that would make that a negative _two_ , and when we add the _fourth_ row, that leaves us with a row of zeroes, so what can we conclude from that, class? Yes, Diana?"

"That the inverse is undefined?"

"Well done."

Ari pretended to scribble the answer down in his notebook, where he'd written "undefined" next to the original matrix nearly seven minutes before. Why was it taking so long for the rest of the class to get it straight? It wasn't as if it was rocket science.

Rocket science was next hour.

The bell rang, and Ari quickly packed up his supplies. "Ready for this year's Exam?" Mr. Bracewell asked casually.

Ari shrugged. "Why not?"

"Most people are a bit nervous," Mr. Bracewell pointed out. Starting at age fourteen, a comprehensive exam was administered at the end of the year, and those who fell in the bottom third were required to drop out and join the district's workforce. Every year, the exams got more and more competitive, leaving only the best and the brightest to attend school past the age of seventeen. Those few would go on to become the district's scientists, researchers, and teachers. The rest took menial jobs in the district's factories and shops, condemned to a life of hard, meaningless labor to benefit the Capitol and the district's wealthier citizens.

"I guess I'm a little bit nervous," Ari offered, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Mr. Bracewell. The truth was, he wasn't nervous. He'd never been nervous for an exam in his life. Despite the dwindling number of students, he'd never been anywhere _near_ the bottom third of any of his classes. He had nothing to worry about.

Sure enough, Mr. Bracewell clapped him on the back with a smile. "Well, don't be. Most days, I think you could be up here _teaching_ the class. Ever think about following in my footsteps one day?"

 _No._ He couldn't imagine being up there at a blackboard, surrounded by students who just didn't _get_ it, forced to teach the inept along with the talented, educating students who, for the most part, wouldn't really amount to anything in the end.

But he kept those thoughts to himself. He always did. "I guess we'll see where they place me after the Exam," Ari answered vaguely, and Mr. Bracewell nodded along as Ari left the room. But he was already certain they wouldn't select him for a _teaching_ position. Not when there were much better uses for his talents.

Ari quickly made his way down the hall, arriving early for his next class despite the delay. He quickly slid into his assigned seat in the front row and smiled at Mrs. Newton. "How's your son?" She'd given birth only a few weeks ago, but was already back on the job. Physics classes weren't going to teach themselves, after all.

"Here's a picture," Mrs. Newton crooned, handing him the infant's tiny identification card. Technically, ID cards were supposed to be kept on one's person at all times, but the law wasn't well-enforced when it came to newborns, whose parents often preferred to keep a picture to show curious people who asked about their children.

Ari smiled, feigning interest. Babies all looked the same, and the picture was too small to really make out any details, anyway. "Very nice," he agreed anyway, handing the picture back as the rest of the class began to trickle into the room. There was no telling when being on his teacher's good side might come in handy.

* * *

 _Six weeks before the reaping_

 **Hesper Coventry, 18**

"You're late," Mace growled as Hesper pushed her way into the storage room. The room already smelled of sweat and grime, and her fellow night shift workers were already scurrying this way and that, carrying boxes and mopping floors.

"Sorry," Hesper mumbled, swallowing a yawn and stretching her arms a little. She'd worked an eight-hour shift only four hours ago, but complaining wouldn't do any good. Everyone in the room had already worked long hours the day before. Excuses wouldn't help her, either. Mace didn't like excuses.

"Toilet duty for you," Mace grumbled, handing her a plunger and a scrub brush. Hesper nodded and made her way towards the single bathroom at the back of the factory. Toilet duty wasn't as bad as it sounded. The bathrooms were filthy. No matter how hard she scrubbed, they would always be filthy. No one expected factory toilets to be sparkling clean. No one cared if she did a half-ass job here.

Hesper fought back the retching feeling in her stomach as she stepped into the bathrooms and slipped on a thin pair of gloves. The smell was sickening, and would probably stay with her for a few days, no matter how hard she tried to scrub it from her skin. But it could always be worse. No one ever inspected the bathrooms thoroughly to see if she'd done her job well. She wouldn't get in trouble here.

It hadn't taken her long to figure that out – that the worse the job was, the less people cared about how well it was done. That was one thing they hadn't taught her in school. For all their district's talk about the importance of an education, it was the lessons she'd learned after she'd failed her first Exam at fourteen and dropped out of school that had stuck with her. It was those lessons that had kept her out of trouble ever since.

Hesper knelt down in the first stall and began to scrub and scrape away the worst of the filth into the bucket at her feet. The toilet in the fourth stall was badly clogged; it had been for almost a week. But it didn't matter. People could simply use the other three if she didn't get to it. No one cared. They were just factory workers, anyway.

Just like her.

Maybe it wasn't much of a life, but it was something. It kept food on the table. And that was the best that anyone but the brightest and most determined could ask for in District Three. She'd never been among the brightest, the most ambitious, the most dedicated. So here she was, scrubbing toilets while most of the district slept. Toiling away at a stupid, pointless job that no one cared about, without any real pressure or motivation.

Hesper blinked the sweat out of her eyes, careful not to wipe her face with her gloves. It would be hours before anyone came to check on her. She could scrub a little, rest a little, scrub a little more, and no one would know the difference. All she had to do was leave most of the toilets in workable condition for the morning shift, and she had nothing to worry about.

She was just starting in on the second stall when the door opened and Rick stumbled in. "Drew the short stick tonight, huh?" he slurred, ambling towards the stall next to her.

"Yeah," Hesper shrugged. "Hey, if you're gonna take a shit, use the third stall, okay? I just cleaned the first one."

Rick grunted his disapproval. "You call that clean?"

"Would you like to do better?"

"I'll pass." He staggered into the third stall, and a horrid smell soon filled the room. "Great," Hesper muttered. "Make sure you flush."

"Will do."

"And wash your hands."

"Sure."

Not that it would make much difference. The water was as rusty and foul-smelling as the rest of the room. Most of the factory workers, she knew, tried to avoid using the bathroom while at work. She certainly did. But sometimes it just couldn't be helped. Sometimes … well, sometimes you had to do what you had to do. And sometimes it just wasn't pretty.

* * *

 _Reaping Day_

 **Addison Werner, 28  
** **Victor of the 13th Hunger Games**

Only six more years. She would only have to go through six more years of this. Then Edmund would be safe from the reaping. He was the youngest in the family. The last one she would need to worry about, unless Gretchen had children.

No, _until_ Gretchen had children. There wasn't much question of that. Even as they sat silently around the table – Addison, her sister Gretchen, Gretchen's husband Landon, and Landon's thirteen-year-old brother Edmund – she had no doubt that there would eventually be more. Gretchen absolutely _adored_ children. Addison shook her head as she stood up to clear the dishes. She'd liked children once, too.

Then she'd killed seven of them. That had changed things.

It was hard, sometimes, to think of the Careers as children. But the truth was, even they were too young. Too young to realize just how much of their lives they were throwing away. Seventeen. Eighteen. Even the older tributes were too young. Gone too soon.

Some people might think that would make it a little better this year – the fact that most of the tributes would probably be older. Probably. There was still that little bit of doubt, nagging at her. It would be there, she knew, until after the reaping. Even last year, when Edmund had only been twelve, she had worried. He hadn't taken any tesserae. His name had only been in the reaping bowl once. But there had still been a chance. Twelve-year-olds went into the Games sometimes.

But none of them had come out. No thirteen-year-olds, either. Tobias was the youngest, and he'd been only a few months shy of fifteen. But the district wouldn't vote in anyone that young. They wouldn't be that cruel.

Would they?

Addison ruffled Edmund's hair as the four of them headed for the square. They wouldn't pick him. They would get through the reaping. She would be back in a few weeks. Just like last year. Just like the year before. And the year before that. And every year since her own Games.

She and Tobias had always come back alone.

Tobias was already onstage waiting for her when they arrived. Addison gave Edmund a quick hug before taking the stage, nodding to Tobias, who was watching the crowd. Probably looking for his niece, Deanna. "How's she doing?" Addison asked.

"Nervous," Tobias admitted. "How's Edward?"

"Edmund."

"Yeah, him."

"Keeping it together. He knows the odds. He knows they probably won't pick him, but—"

"Probably," Tobias echoed. There was that word again. Nothing was certain until after the reaping. Until they were safely on the train with their pair of tributes. Until then, anything could happen. Anything at all.

"And how are you two?" asked a voice from behind them. Addison turned to see their escort, Titania, smiling down at them. "Nervous?"

"A bit," Tobias admitted. "I'd ask you to try not to draw my niece's name, but…"

"But it's not up to me this year," Titania finished. "It feels a bit strange, really – not really having anything to do up here."

"Except look pretty," Addison offered. Titania blushed. She _was_ pretty, in a strange Capitolite kind of way. Her dyed auburn hair was styled up in a point, and her bright gold eyeliner made her wide brown eyes stand out even more. When she'd first started escorting, Addison had heard, her tastes had been a bit more extreme, but twenty-five years as District Three's escort seemed to have mellowed her a bit.

District Three had that effect on pretty much everyone. Everyone but the best and the brightest. She'd made it through the first two Exams before narrowly missing the third cut only a week before she'd been reaped. If it hadn't been for the Games, she would be working some job in the factories instead of living in relative luxury in Victors' Village. And that was the worst part of the Games. Most outer-district Victors were now in a position where they were expected to be grateful for what had happened, because the Games had spared them from a life of labor in the district.

Addison shook the thought from her head as Titania made her way to the microphone. "Hello again, District Three! Always a pleasure to be back. And what a _special_ year it is this time. Mayor Chesterton, may I have the results of the election?"

Expressionless, the mayor handed Titania a pair of envelopes. Despite his stoic exterior, Addison knew he must be nervous. He had three children – two of them of reaping age. The district didn't really have a reason to vote against them, but the mere fact that their names would be recognizable on the ballot might put them at a disadvantage.

Titania slid the paper from the first envelope. "And the female tribute you've chosen is … Hesper Coventry!"

Addison glanced over at Tobias, who didn't give any sign of recognition. The name wasn't familiar. Which wasn't particularly surprising. Aside from a few of Edmund's friends, she didn't know most of the district's teenagers.

It took a moment for the eighteen-year-old section to part, revealing a girl in an olive green uniform. She was a little shorter than average, with medium brown skin, curly black hair, and dark brown eyes. Eyes that were darting back and forth as the Peacekeepers made their way towards her. She took a step back. Then another. But at least she had the sense not to run.

As soon as one of the Peacekeepers grabbed her arm, however, she began to panic. "Please. Please, there's been some sort of mistake. You don't want _me_ in the Games. Please."

But the Peacekeepers didn't listen. Two of them dragged her to the stage, but she still wouldn't stop pleading. "Please. This is a mistake. They can't have meant to pick me. Something went wrong. _Please_."

Titania shook her head solemnly. "See for yourself." She handed Hesper the piece of paper.

Hesper's hands were trembling as she took it, her eyes watering in fear. She took a step away from Titania, dropping the paper at her feet. "It's not fair," she whispered. "What did I do?"

Titania didn't answer. There _was_ no answer. Chances were, the girl hadn't done anything at all – certainly nothing that warranted the death sentence that the Games usually were. But they'd had to vote for _someone_. Addison avoided Hesper's gaze as Titania opened the second envelope. "Joining Miss Coventry will be your male tribute … Arirang Zeno!"

Another unfamiliar name. Addison watched as a boy stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section, glancing this way and that, watching the crowd. He was about average height, with pale skin, dark hair that came almost to his chin, and almond-shaped brown eyes. For a moment, he stopped, and the Peacekeepers started to head towards him, but backed off when he began to take a few more cautious steps towards the stage on his own, silently shaking his head.

Finally, he made it up the stairs, tears brimming in his eyes. "Call me Ari," he managed to squeak out, his voice faltering a little. "I … I'll do my best to make you proud."

Proud. Addison held back a scoff. Even if the boy somehow managed to make it back from the Games, the district still wouldn't be _proud_. But that wasn't his fault. They weren't proud of her, either – or of Tobias. They weren't proud of the girl who had cheated her way to victory or the little boy who had proven to be a better killer than anyone had imagined. She and Tobias weren't celebrities, like the Victors in Career districts. They weren't role models. They were just lucky. They were just survivors.

The boy silently turned to Hesper and offered his hand. She shook it, and the crowd began to leave. There was no reason to stay. No fanfare. No celebration. Just two more kids going to what would probably be their deaths. Just like any other year.

* * *

 **Arirang "Ari" Zeno, 17**

How could this have happened? Ari paced the room, his fists clenched tightly. His family had come and gone, as had a few of his teachers. Mr. Bracewell had shyly suggested that maybe the district had voted for him because they were certain he could win. That maybe they'd simply had that much confidence in him. _He_ hadn't voted for him, Mr. Bracewell had assured him, but he was sure that he had a good chance.

Alone at last, Ari scoffed at the idea. Maybe it made sense to them, but the idea of sending someone into the Games simply because they were intelligent was absurd. The Games weren't really a test of intelligence. If they were, he would have nothing to worry about. But even the most intelligent, even the cleverest, even the most ruthless tributes still had to prove themselves physically in order to emerge victorious.

And there, he was at a disadvantage. He was healthy enough, but he couldn't hold a candle to the Careers who had trained their whole lives for this. Could he really hope to beat even one of them in a fight?

Not a fair fight. So he would have to make sure that it _wasn't_ a fair fight. Addison had wiped out the Careers with a clever trick – a bomb built from explosives she'd smuggled into the arena in the watch she'd claimed as her district token. The _same_ trick wouldn't work again, of course, but maybe there was some other aspect of the Games he could manipulate to his advantage. Maybe…

No. Not 'maybe.' He couldn't afford to think in terms of possibilities. Not now. There were only two possibilities. Either he was going to make it out of the arena alive, or he wasn't. There was no middle ground. If he failed now, he would die.

And he had no intention of dying. No, he would come back. He would show them. The ones who had voted for him because they thought he could win. The ones who had voted out of jealousy or spite. The ones who had simply circled a name they didn't know. He would survive. He would win these Games. He would show _all_ of them what he was capable of.

* * *

 **Hesper Coventry, 18**

"How could this have happened?" Hesper's mother cried as she hugged her daughter. "Who could have voted for _you_? What did you ever do to them?"

Hesper said nothing. She didn't have an answer. There _was_ no good answer. No good reason to vote for _anyone_. Sure, there were people who she might not have felt sorry for, but she couldn't think of anyone she would have _wanted_ to see in the Games. Apparently, enough other people had felt the same way. Enough of them had simply chosen a name the same way her parents had said they had: they'd selected someone they didn't know.

And not enough people had known her.

Hesper took a deep breath, trying to focus. To soak in every detail of everyone in the room. Her parents. Her older brothers, Ramon and Tomas. Ramon's wife, Belinda, and their daughter, Abigail. This could be the last time they saw each other.

No. No, that was only half true. She might not see them again, but they would see _her_. Onstage, in the Capitol, in front of all of Panem. Hesper held her mother closer, shuddering at the thought. Her family had survived for so long in District Three by _not_ being worthy of anyone's attention. All of them held menial, insignificant jobs. They had never been noticed by those in power, and they'd been content with that. She'd never _wanted_ to be noticed. Maybe her life in District Three wasn't much, but she was _alive._

Now … how much longer would that last? Once she was in the arena with twenty-three other teens, how much longer would she _stay_ alive? "You can do this," Ramon assured her, gripping her shoulder. Abigail wrapped her arms around Hesper's legs. They all _wanted_ to believe that she could do this. They _wanted_ to believe that she had a chance of coming home.

But wanting it didn't make it true. She would be going up against twenty-three other teenagers – some of them Careers, some of them much stronger than her. Did she really have a chance against them? Only two of District Three's tributes had ever made it home. Could she really be the third?


	7. District Four: What You Want

**District Four Reaping  
** **What You Want**

* * *

 _Eleven months, two weeks before the reaping_

 **Kekoa Palu, 17**

The tension in the room was palpable. The Games were down to the final two – Jerica Camlet from District One and Douglas Reed from District Four. The sponsors had favored Jerica throughout the Games, and maybe that made sense. She was the twin sister of the previous year's Victor, and, on top of that, she was confident. Ruthless. Brutal.

But now she was on the run. So was Douglas. Clowns armed with hatchets chased the pair of them through the brightly-colored arena. Towards the giant Ferris Wheel in the center of the carnival. Kekoa shook his head as the pair arrived on opposite sides of the wheel and began to climb. He didn't know Douglas very well – they'd met a few times during training, but they'd never really spoken – but it was obvious the boy hated heights.

Jerica, meanwhile, quickly scrambled up the spokes, keeping her distance from the clowns below her. By the time she made it to the top, Douglas was only halfway up, the clowns close on his heels. Jerica grinned. The clowns were driving Douglas right towards her. She had the high ground. All she had to do was take advantage of it.

Quickly, she removed her backpack and drew out a hatchet. Douglas' eyes widened as he realized that he'd dropped his only weapon – the spear that he'd been using for most of the Games. He was quite deadly with it, but it would have been impossible to carry it while climbing. Jerica's preferred weapon, on the other hand, fit neatly inside her backpack.

She could have simply thrown it. Even if the blow didn't kill him, it would probably be enough to make him lose his balance. But she didn't. Maybe she didn't trust her aim. Maybe she knew the Gamemakers would want something more than that. She always seemed to know what the Gamemakers wanted…

That was part of Douglas' problem. He saw the Games as a battle rather than … well, a _game_. His strategies had taken the other tributes into consideration, but never the audience. Jerica had won their favor, and had nearly won the Games.

Sure enough, she climbed down towards Douglas, sure-footed as ever while he still clung on for dear life, his knuckles white, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. Kekoa tensed. This was it. Douglas had to do something _now_ if he was going to have a chance. He had to make a move. He had to do _something_.

But he didn't. He simply clung tightly to the wheel as if frozen in place. He was terrified. It was hard to blame him for that, of course. It was hard not to feel sorry for him. But sympathy didn't save him as Jerica's hatchet came down, slicing his right hand clean off. Douglas screamed as he nearly lost his grip with his left hand. He managed to wrap his legs around one of the spokes, blood spurting from his wrist as Jerica swung again, chopping his left hand off. After that, one good kick was all it took.

Groans of disappointment filled the training center. District One had _another_ Victor – a Victor who was slowly descending in one of the Ferris Wheel's cars. And District Four … well, District Four would have to wait another year.

"I told you you should've volunteered this year," one of the trainers mumbled as he passed Kekoa. "You never would've frozen like that."

Kekoa shrugged. He hoped that was true. He hoped that, if it had been him, he would've been able to do _something_ , rather than simply staring up like a beached fish as Jerica killed him. But what was he supposed to do? Douglas had _wanted_ to volunteer. And, for all the trainers' prodding, volunteering for the Games still wasn't something that Kekoa _wanted_.

Kekoa shook his head as he headed back home to his parents, sister, and grandfather. There was no guarantee that, if it had been him in the Games, he would have even gotten _that_ far. Was there anyone who could have stood in Jerica's way this year? Maybe. Maybe not. But there was no point in getting worked up about it now. The Games were over – for this year, at least. Only one more year, and then the trainers would have to leave him alone. After next year, he would be too old, and they would have to find someone else.

They would, he was certain. There would always be someone else. No matter how many of their tributes died in the Games, there would always be someone eager to volunteer. He would never understand that. Maybe life in District Four wasn't perfect, but at least it was _life_. That had to count for something. As for the Games … well, he could let someone else have a chance.

* * *

 _Two weeks before the reaping_

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18**

This was her last chance. Mora dove beneath the surface again, circling around behind her opponent. The trainers were watching, as were the other trainees. But the only person who mattered right now was the girl in front of her. Pearl Arroyo, one of the other eighteen-year-olds vying for the right to volunteer. It was Pearl's last year, too. Her last chance. But that didn't matter. _Couldn't_ matter. Once she was in the arena, she would have to _kill_ people. Compared to that, the thought of ruining someone's chances at volunteering was child's play.

Pearl was bigger – at least a head taller, and a good fifty or sixty pounds heavier – but Mora was faster in the water. She'd been swimming since before she could remember, and had spent most of her life on her mother's fishing boat. Even here, in the shallows, that gave her an advantage. Mora quickly darted between the bigger girl's legs, knocking her off-balance, then threw in an extra kick for good measure. Pearl flailed, trying to get a grip on Mora, but she was too slippery. One more blow to Pearl's head drew a whistle – the signal to stop the match. Mora surfaced, barely gasping for breath, watching the trainers expectantly.

"Shrimp," Pearl growled. "What're you gonna do if there's no water in the arena?"

Mora scoffed. It wasn't as if she'd failed the land-based tests, either. She was one of the academy's best trainees. But was she _the_ best? The decision was up to the trainers now. If she didn't get to volunteer this year, she would never get another chance. This was her last year…

"You've all performed well," the head trainer, Marlowe Bay, announced. "As always, this will be a difficult decision for us. This year's volunteers will be announced tonight after the announcement of the Quarter Quell twist."

Mora nodded. That made sense. The volunteers were usually decided immediately after the last matches were finished, but the trainers probably wanted to wait and make sure that the Quell twist wasn't going to be something that would interfere with their decisions. There were rumors that the twist might double or even triple the number of tributes. Those were just rumors, of course, but if it was true…

If it was true, her chances would be even better. There was nothing to worry about. Winning the Games in a normal year would have been enough to satisfy her, but the trainers had made a habit of picking eighteen-year-olds to volunteer for the last few years. Maybe they thought they were being kind by choosing someone who wouldn't have a chance at volunteering the next year. Maybe they simply wanted an eighteen-year-old Victor to round out the district's numbers. Mags had been seventeen when she'd won, and Coraline had been sixteen. Hudson, who had turned nineteen in the arena, was the oldest Victor not only in District Four, but in the history of the Hunger Games.

That was a record she wasn't likely to break – not without also breaking the record for longest Games. Her birthday was more than a full month after the reaping. But that didn't matter. She didn't need to break every record on the books in order to be satisfied. Winning the Games would be quite enough.

But first, she had to get _in_ the Games. That was hard enough in District Four, now that it had become a Career district. It had taken it a while to get there, and Four still hadn't shaken its reputation as an 'emerging' Career District. Yes, they had three Victors, but only one of those could properly be considered a Career. Mags had joined up with the Career pack, but only in the interest of survival. Hudson hadn't volunteered, either, and his low training score had gotten him kicked out of the pack. Only Coraline could really be considered a Career, and even her Games had been a bit of a disappointment, with more tributes dying from hypothermia and starvation in the barren, frigid arena than in any Games before it.

Mora shook her head as she made her way back to her mother's fishing boat. Coraline was a Victor now, the same as any other to come out of the Games. In the end, it didn't really matter _how_ a tribute won the Games. All that mattered was that they won. And that was exactly what she intended to do.

* * *

 **Hudson Calder, 29  
** **Victor of the 14th Hunger Games**

He still didn't understand how anyone could want this. After ten years of mentoring, Hudson still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of _wanting_ to be in the Games. In those ten years, he and Mags had only managed to bring one tribute home. Only one tribute from District Four who had volunteered for the Games had ever come back. But there always seemed to be more. There were always more volunteers – more _children_ – ready to risk their lives. _Eager_ to put their lives on the line.

He hadn't had a choice. Career training hadn't hit District Four full-force until after his own victory. He'd been reaped for the Games, just like most of the other District Four tributes before him. Just like Mags, who gave a little shrug as she took a seat beside him on the stage. She didn't understand it, either; that much was obvious. She'd been seventeen when she was chosen for the Games. He'd been eighteen at the reaping, nineteen when he'd won. But neither of them would have taken that risk on their own. Their odds had been good, but that was no guarantee.

There were never any guarantees.

This year, there weren't even any guarantees about the reaping. He could hope that the district had the sense to pick someone who had been campaigning. Someone who actually wanted to be in the Games. But nothing was certain until the names were actually revealed. They could have picked _anyone._ And this time, there would be no chance for anyone else to step in if they picked someone who _didn't_ want to be in the Games.

Hudson's gaze strayed to Coraline, who arrived at the square with her six brothers and sisters. Only the youngest, Misty, was still eligible for the reaping. She hadn't been campaigning, but for the sister of a Victor, that might not mean anything. Coraline had volunteered for the Games, so people might assume that her sister would be just as eager.

He hoped they would have more sense. Coraline gave her sister a hug before Misty went to join the other eighteen-year-olds. This was her last year. Recently, that hadn't seemed to mean much in District Four. Eighteen-year-olds weren't nervous, and neither were the twelve-year-olds. Any other year, they could relax, knowing that someone else would be willing to step in and save them from the Games.

But not this time.

Coraline nodded stiffly, and Hudson did his best to smile back. There hadn't been anyone to step in and save him or Mags. This year was no different from the years before the Career system, when anyone could be picked. When someone like _him_ could be picked.

Except it wasn't up to chance. It was up to the district. And he wasn't sure whether that made it better or worse. As long as they made the right choice – a good choice, someone who had a chance, someone who wanted it – then there wasn't a problem. But if they chose badly…

Hudson could feel Mags' hand on his. She gave a little squeeze, and he nodded. It was only for one year. One year, and then everything would go back to normal.

Right. Normal. As if children volunteering for this – volunteering to fight, to kill, to die – would ever be normal. The rest of the district seemed to have accepted it. And why not? It meant their untrained children didn't have to worry about being chosen for the Games. It meant no little twelve or thirteen year olds being ripped from their families at the reaping. Those fears were gone. But what had replaced them … was it better or worse?

It was certainly _easier_ – at least for him and Mags. It was easier to mentor tributes who actually wanted to be there. Tributes who were prepared, who came to the reaping already familiar with what they would be expected to do. Who already had some idea of what strategy they wanted to use. Who were prepared to jump right in and make allies and charm the Capitol without having to be coaxed out of their shells. It was easier. But did that make it _better_?

Their escort certainly seemed to think so. Rufus Maxim was grinning as he took the stage, and the crowd cheered in return. Hudson smiled a little. The district was beginning to get used to Rufus, and he'd certainly taken a liking to District Four – enough to have his skin patterned with green scales to look more like a fish, and his tongue forked to look like … something. What, exactly, Hudson wasn't sure. Maybe no one had had the heart to tell him that fish didn't actually have forked tongues or pointed teeth.

"Hello, Dithtrict Four!" Rufus beamed, waving and grinning at the crowd. They kept cheering until he finally motioned for quiet. "What a wonderful occathion to be back in thith dithtrict! Our very firtht Quarter Quell!"

Hudson couldn't help smiling a little. How much of Rufus' strange speech was simply the Capitol's accent and how much of it came from what he'd done to his tongue, Hudson wasn't sure, but at least it made the reapings a little bit more entertaining. It gave a little spice to something that, recently, had become more of a formality than anything else. For the last few years, the volunteers had been chosen in advance, well before the reaping. Nothing at the reaping had come as a surprise to anyone for the past few years.

"I believe Mayor Bennett hath the rethulth of the vote." Rufus turned to the mayor, who nodded and handed over an envelope. Hudson stole a glance at Caroline as Rufus opened the envelope and removed a slip of paper. "And our female tribute ith … Mora Loch-Tiller!"

A loud "Yes!" erupted from the eighteen-year-old section, and a girl stepped out. She was short – maybe a couple inches over five feet – but lean and fit, her skin tan and her muscles toned. Her sandy blonde hair was tied up on a ponytail, and she wore a long-sleeve white blouse, a pea coat that matched her bright blue eyes, black pants, and black boots. She strode confidently towards the stage, taking the stairs quickly and joining Rufus onstage without a moment of hesitation. "Thank you, District Four," she beamed as Rufus handed over the microphone. "I won't let you down."

Hudson fought back a twinge in his stomach as Mora handed the microphone back. How many other tributes had stood where she was standing, confidently declaring that they would be back, that they were going to make their district proud? How many times had he heard it? How many times had those tributes actually come back?

Once. He and Mags had promised no such thing, and Coraline … she had gotten lucky. But this was as good a year as any for District Four to get lucky again. Maybe Mora would be the next one to come home.

Hudson smiled a little as Coraline relaxed. At least her sister was safe. And Mora seemed more than happy to be standing onstage, beaming out at the crowd. He was pretty sure he'd seen her at the training center; maybe she would even have been the trainers' choice to volunteer. She was a little short, a little small, but size didn't always matter, in the end. It certainly didn't matter as much as her training, or whether she had the guts to do what had to be done. Whether or not she did … they would just have to wait and see.

Rufus, for his part, was still grinning as he opened the second envelope. "And our male tribute ith … Kekoa Palu!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, but this time, their tribute was a little slower to emerge. When he finally stepped out, he couldn't quite hide the surprise on his face. Slowly, he started towards the stage, glancing this way and that. He was taller than Mora and well-built, with tan skin, dark hair, and dark brown eyes. By the time he reached the stage, he'd managed to put on a bit of a smile, but he still didn't look nearly as enthusiastic as Mora. It took him a moment to even realize that she was holding out her hand for him to shake.

Once he noticed, however, he shook it readily, relaxing a little more. "Let'th have a hand for your tributeth, Dithtrict Four!" Rufus called.

The crowd cheered a little more before finally beginning to disperse. The cameras switched off, and Coraline flashed Hudson and Mags a relieved smile before heading off to join her sister. Mora turned to the pair of them. "So … who's mentoring who?"

Hudson smiled a little. It only made sense that she would want to get that out of the way. That was usually something that was decided before the reaping. Kekoa shrugged. "Got a preference?"

"Do you?"

Kekoa shook his head. "The way I see it, we'll probably be working together, anyway, so … take your pick."

"I pick you, then," Mags interrupted before Mora could say anything.

Kekoa shrugged, and so did Mora. "Sounds good to me," Kekoa agreed.

"All right, then," Hudson nodded. "Looks like you're with me, Mora."

Mora nodded crisply, and Hudson watched as the pair of them headed for the Justice Building. Hudson waited until they were out of earshot to ask his question. "Were you just being nice to me?"

Mags raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Letting me take the one who wants to be here – is that just you being nice, or did you see something I didn't?"

"I saw flexibility. A willingness to work with whoever he might be paired with. And that's a good thing … when it comes to mentors. Not so good when it comes to allies who might turn on you. I can help him with that."

"And I wouldn't be as much help in that department because I didn't have allies," Hudson reasoned. "Smart."

"I try to be."

"And Mora?"

"She's got some training – that much is obvious. Eager, ready to prove herself. That can lead people to make rash mistakes. You're pretty much the authority on _not_ making rash moves."

Hudson couldn't help a smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Let's hope it's enough to get us a Victor this year."

Hudson nodded. He certainly hoped so.

* * *

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18**

This was everything she'd ever wanted. Mora was all smiles as her family – her mother, step-father, and little brother Storm – entered her room in the Justice Building. They were smiling, too – especially Storm. "They picked you," he beamed. "They really picked you!"

Her step-father ruffled his hair. "Well, of course they did. Everyone knows our girl is this district's best chance at winning the Games."

Mora couldn't hide a grin. When she'd first started training, even her family had been somewhat skeptical. But years of hard work had finally paid off. She'd proven herself to her family. To her trainers. And to enough of the district to earn this year's spot in the Games. Now she just had to prove to the rest of Panem that she had what it took.

It wouldn't be easy, of course. She wasn't kidding herself. In the past twenty-four years, only three of District Four's tributes had made it home. But ever since the Career system had taken off, the whole district had been itching for another Victor. This was their year. It had to be.

No. No, it was _her_ year. It wasn't enough for District Four to earn itself another Victor. That Victor had to be _her_ if she wanted to come home. Home to her family and her friends and her mother's fishing boat. Home to the people she cared about enough to risk her life for. For a chance at something better for them – for _all_ of them. If she won, her family would have everything they could ask for. Everything they needed – and everything they _wanted_. If she won…

No. No, not _if_ she won. _Once_ she won. She was coming home. Years of training had been enough to prepare her body, but she'd also had time to prepare her mind. She was ready to fight. Ready to kill. Because that was what it would take. That was what Victors _did._ And she was ready to be a Victor.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18**

He'd never wanted this. Kekoa shook his head as his parents, older sister, and grandfather entered the room. "They voted for me," Kekoa repeated, still not quite believing the words. "Why would they vote for me? There were plenty of others to vote for. Plenty of people who were actually campaigning. Plenty of people who—"

"Who actually wanted it?" his grandfather finished.

"Exactly," Kekoa agreed. "I know it's supposed to be an honor. I know it means they think I can win, but … this isn't something I ever wanted."

His grandfather nodded knowingly. "Then why train for it?"

"Because I…" Kekoa trailed off. It was a question he'd asked himself often enough. Why did he keep training, if he'd never really had any intention of volunteering? "Because it was _fun_ ," Kekoa admitted. "Because I enjoyed it. But I never wanted—"

"Never wanted the pressure of actually going through with it. You wanted all of the praise that came with being the top in your class, but not the expectations that came with it."

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?"

Kekoa could feel his face growing warmer. "Kupunakāne…"

His grandfather smiled a little. "Do you think you can win?"

"What?"

"Do you think you can win the Games?"

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing. You go out there, and you win, and _then_ you can come back to District Four and fuss and moan about how it wasn't what you wanted. You hear? There's no time for that now. You have to focus."

Kekoa shook his head. "Did you vote for me?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you vote for me, Kupunakāne?"

"No."

He turned to the others. "Mother? Father? Kaileah?"

They all shook their heads, and Kekoa breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the rest of the district had ignored what he'd wanted, but his family … at least they hadn't wanted to send him to what might be his death. He wrapped his arms around one, and then another. "Okay. Okay, then. I'll see you when I get back, right?" That was what he was supposed to say, wasn't it? He was supposed to act confident. He was supposed to be certain that he was the one coming back.

 _Do you think you can win?_ His grandfather's words lingered even after his family had left the room. Of course he thought he could win. But thinking it and _knowing_ it weren't the same thing. Every Career tribute went into the Games _thinking_ that they could win. But how many came back out again?

Kekoa shook his head. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what the other tributes before him had done. He was coming home. He was coming back to his family. Maybe he didn't want to be in the Games, but he _wanted_ to come home. And that was all that mattered.


	8. District Five: What You Need

**Trigger Warning:** Sam has severe depression and suicidal thoughts that surface in both of her POVs. If you'd like a summary of what happens rather than reading it, just shoot me a PM.

* * *

 **District Five Reaping  
** **What You Need**

* * *

 _Three weeks before the reaping_

 **Samantha "Sam" Hacka, 16**

"You just need to pull yourself together," Sam's mother insisted. "One of these days, you're going to get yourself killed. Is that what you _want_?"

Sam held her tongue as her mother tended the wounds on her back. The Peacekeepers hadn't been gentle. They'd caught her and Cress practicing with wooden swords in an alleyway. Anyone with half a brain would have been able to tell it was harmless fun, that neither of them really wanted to hurt the other. But brawling of any sort was technically illegal, and interpretation of the word was generally left up to the Peacekeepers enforcing it. They could have killed her then and there, if they'd wanted.

Maybe someone else would be grateful that they hadn't. Sam said nothing, holding her tongue until her mother left. _Is that what you want?_ She had to admit, being whipped to death by a Peacekeeper wasn't really how she wanted to go. And it wasn't that she _wanted_ to die. Not always. Not even usually, really. It was just that she _didn't_ want to live.

But she didn't dare say anything of the sort to her mother. Once, almost a year ago, it had slipped out, and her mother had panicked. She'd barely let Sam out of the house for weeks out of fear that she might try something. Something. As if there weren't ways to end it all inside the house. A kitchen knife here. A rope there. Sometimes, she'd simply refuse to eat, sneaking the food to the stray dogs outside when no one was looking.

But they always caught her – her parents, her friends, someone. They always dragged her back. Back to a world she didn't want to live in, a life she wanted no part of. Why couldn't they understand that this was what she wanted? Why didn't they see that it would be better for everyone to simply let her go?

Finally, the door closed behind her mother, and Sam sat up. Slowly. Her back still ached – and would for at least a week now. But at least Cress had gotten away safely. She'd even managed to smuggle the wooden swords away with her.

It had been Cress' idea to start practicing with them. It had started as a distraction. Something to keep her mind off of … well, whatever Cress thought she was distracted by. And Cress meant well, but that wasn't how it worked. Maybe their rounds of swordplay made her feel more alive for a little while, but anything more than that … it just didn't last. It wasn't enough.

But it _was_ fun while it lasted – one of the few things she truly enjoyed. And she'd gotten pretty good at it. Certainly better than Sophia, who had gone a few rounds with them once before deciding that it wasn't for her. Sam didn't blame her for that, of course. It was important to know when something was too much for you.

It was important to know when to quit.

Sam ran her fingers along the scars on her arms. That was what it was about, really. Knowing when to quit. Knowing when life was too much, when it was time to move on to … something. Something better, hopefully. It couldn't really be something worse.

Sam shook her head as she lay back down. Her whole body felt heavy. She would find Cress later. Apologize for putting her in danger. It wasn't fair, after all, to drag Cress down with her. Cress was different. Or maybe Cress was normal, and _she_ was different. Maybe she was the only one who could see how pointless it all was. It was a lonely thought, but not an unfamiliar one. Everyone else always seemed so … if not _happy,_ then at least content. Content to go on with their lives as if the next moment wasn't certain to be as miserable as the last. They didn't understand.

Or maybe she didn't understand. Maybe they had something that she didn't – something that she couldn't fathom. Their drive, their desire, their _will_ to live. Maybe it was something she'd simply never had. She certainly couldn't _remember_ a time when she hadn't felt this way. There must have been something before. It seemed her mother was always talking about how _happy_ she'd been as a child. But she didn't remember that.

Maybe her mother was simply imagining things. Seeing what she wanted to see – what she _needed_ to see. Remembering things the way _she_ wanted them to be, not the way they were. Sam hoped she would continue to do that – remember her fondly, when she finally succeeded. When she was finally gone.

* * *

 _Twenty days before the reaping_

 **Isaiah "Snap" Shelby, 18**

"Look, you all just need to relax. I'll take care of this," Snap insisted. Some idiots down on 42nd Street were refusing to pay up, but that was no reason for the whole gang to get upset. He usually managed to work these things out pretty quickly. If one look at him didn't straighten things out, _then_ he would convince them. But if he didn't _need_ to use force, all the better. He had no intention of giving the Peacekeepers a reason to investigate them.

Not that the Peacekeepers usually did much in the way of investigation. As far as they were concerned, anything that kept the districts in line – anything that kept them _scared_ – was a good thing. If that meant letting a few gangs patrol the neighborhoods, that meant less work for the Peacekeepers. Occasionally, they'd make an example of someone who got too troublesome, just to remind everyone who was _really_ in charge. But as long as they didn't cause too much of a fuss out in the open, the Peacekeepers usually left the Shelby family alone. They simply didn't have a reason to care about a few frightened shopkeepers.

And that was all it was, really. A little blackmail here, a little extortion there. The shopkeepers paid for the ability to operate their businesses in peace, and his family made a little profit. Not a bad deal, all things considered. It could certainly be a lot worse.

But there were always a few who didn't realize that, who had to be reminded of just how bad things could be. Snap rose from the table with a wink at his father, who nodded as Snap left. It wasn't far to 42nd Street. He could be back home before dinner.

Snap couldn't help a chuckle as he passed an alleyway near his house. He'd seen some girls there the day before, fighting with little wooden swords. It had almost been amusing to watch, until some Peacekeepers had come to ruin the fun. Then it had just been pitiful. Both girls had tried to run, but only one had made it out of the alley in time. The Peacekeepers had beaten the other one soundly. Fat lot of good a little makeshift sword had done her then. Those kids – the ones who pretended to fight, who got a laugh out of sparring with weapons that would barely cause a bruise – they had no idea what _real_ power was.

Real power didn't come from weapons, or even from his fists. _Real_ power came from a reputation. The Shelby name meant something in District Five, and he was part of that. His power didn't come from a sword or even a gun. His family had _built_ that power. Built it up from nothing.

And now it was his to wield.

But only if he had to. Too much blood was bad for business. If they came across as _too_ brutal, the Peacekeepers might step in. So when he arrived at the little shop on 42nd Street, he knocked politely – twice. Knocking harder or more insistently might tip the owner off that it was him, and he didn't want that.

Instead, the little man who opened the door paled when he saw Snap's face. The initial shock was all he needed. "Mr. Shelby, I … I …"

"Mr. Shelby is my father," Snap answered coolly. "I'm Snap. Do you know why they call me that?"

He knew. That much was obvious from the look on his face. "Please. I don't want any trouble."

Snap shrugged. "Then pay up."

"We need the money. My family—"

"And what do you think will happen to them if you say no?"

That was all it took. Mere seconds later, Snap stuffed the coins the man had given him into his pocket. "A pleasure doing business with you," he smiled as he left the shop, rubbing his knuckles. The little shopkeeper let out a gulp, but Snap closed the door behind him without another word. He hadn't even needed to strike the man. He'd barely needed to _speak_ to him. The man would never step out of line again, and there was no harm done. All in all, it had been a rather productive evening.

* * *

 **Atticus Kelvin, 36  
** **Victor of the 7th Hunger Games**

He just needed to get through the next few minutes. That was what Atticus kept trying to tell himself. Just a few minutes, and then the reaping would be over. But that didn't really make it any better. Because after the reaping, the real work would begin. And that was always the hard part.

Not just because it meant that at least one of the two children whose names were called at the reaping would die. Not just because it meant days of worrying and fretting and watching anxiously as they battled for their lives. But also because there seemed to be so little he could do to help them. So little advice that he could give.

Mina had ignored his advice from the start. On the train ride to the Capitol after her reaping, she'd made it clear what she thought of him. As a mentor. As a _Victor_. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a killer. He had just gotten lucky.

Atticus avoided her gaze as he took his place onstage next to her. She was right, after all. He hadn't killed a single tribute during his Games. He'd hidden in the deepest parts of the sewers and managed to make it until the finale before having to fight anyone. Even then, he'd been wounded quickly, and had only survived because the other pair of tributes had fatally injured each other before _he_ could bleed out.

Which wasn't exactly great advice for future tributes. But the truth was, there was only so much that _any_ mentor could do, only so much advice that _any_ mentor could give. Mina, after all, had killed nine tributes, endearing herself to the Capitol audience with her tricks and backstabbing despite her small size and physical weakness. That strategy wasn't likely to work for, say, a six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound powerhouse. And, if the district had any sense, this year's tributes would be older, stronger, and more prepared than usual.

 _If_ their district had any sense. He didn't put much stock in that, which was why he was grateful that _his_ only nephew, Sylvester, was still too young for the reaping. Atticus caught a glance of the three of them in the crowd – his sister Liesl and her wife Tamika, standing protectively beside Sylvester, as if trying to shield him from the reaping. But he was eleven now. He would only be safe for one more year…

But he was safe this year. Safe from the Quarter Quell. Not that this year was _really_ any more dangerous than any other. The Capitol wanted them to _think_ it was. But no matter how spectacular and deadly the arena was, it would produce the same results as any other year. The same results as the sewers he had been trapped in and the graveyard Mina had faced. By the end of the Games, twenty-three children would be dead. The same as any other year.

So there was nothing to worry about. No more than normal, at least. Normal. It was strange, really, how quickly the idea of twenty-three children dying every year had become normal. He had been eleven when the Games had begun, and they had seemed so terrible. Now … children died every day in Panem. If a few of them happened to die by a sword in an arena rather than from starvation on the streets, was that really any worse?

He knew better than to say so, of course – at least around Mina. Despite her impressive record, she detested the Games, and didn't exactly keep it a secret. But the Capitol tolerated it _because_ of her record. She still held the record for the most kills in any Games, so the idea that she was conflicted – even tortured – just made for a better story. And the Capitol liked nothing more than a good story.

Atticus leaned back in his chair. He hadn't given them a good story. The Capitol would probably rather forget about him, and that was perfectly fine by him. When it wasn't time for the Games, they left him well enough alone. And having to travel to the Capitol every year for the Games … well, there were worse ways to spend a few weeks.

Certainly the accommodations were better, although the company left something to be desired. Mina usually didn't want anything to do with him. And their escort, Phoebe … well, at least she tolerated him. But she clearly preferred Mina, the Victor who had actually _done_ something. The Victor who had actually _earned_ the right to be here. The right to be alive.

Atticus gave Phoebe a wave as she took her place onstage. Phoebe shook her head, and Mina rolled her eyes as the crowd began to settle down. "It's good to be back in District Five," Phoebe crooned. "If only for a little while."

A little while. That was an understatement. Between arriving on the train in the morning and leaving for the Capitol again after the reaping, Phoebe barely spent a few hours in District Five. Whatever attachment she _thought_ she had to the district was in her head. She didn't _really_ care about District Five.

Not that he blamed her for that. Most people _in_ District Five didn't care about District Five, so why should they expect anyone outside the district to care? As long as electricity kept flowing to the Capitol on schedule, nobody gave a damn about what happened in District Five.

But that was probably true of the other districts, as well. There was nothing special about Five's relationship with the Capitol. Even in One and Two, relations had been strained immediately after the rebellion, but things were on the mend there. But here in District Five, it was a different story.

"I can't wait to meet this year's tributes," Phoebe grinned. "Especially since you've had the chance to select them yourselves. I'm sure you're sending us the best this year."

Atticus glanced over at Mina, who shook her head. Maybe the best. Maybe the worst. It all depended on how the district voted, and they were about to find out. Mayor Knox handed Phoebe a pair of envelopes, and Phoebe slid the first one open and removed a single slip of paper. "And the winner of the election for the females is … Samantha Hacka!"

It wasn't a name he knew. Not a name he voted for. And as the sixteen-year-old section parted, he didn't recognize the girl. She was pale, with dark brown hair that hung to her elbows and cold hazel eyes. At first, she barely moved – and, when she did, she stepped back a little. For a moment, she glanced around frantically, her breathing growing visibly more and more rapid, until her chest was heaving up and down.

Then it stopped. Suddenly, abruptly, she grew calm again. She took one step forward, then another, a smile slowly creeping over her face. By the time she reached the stage, her breathing had returned to normal, and she looked almost happy.

No, not happy. Just … relieved. She took a few steps towards Phoebe and the microphone. "It's Sam, actually. Just Sam."

Phoebe nodded. "Well, then, Sam, congratulations on being chosen as this year's female tribute!"

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Thank you."

Atticus raised an eyebrow. That was something they didn't usually hear at the reaping – a tribute who was grateful for something. But was she just thanking Phoebe for congratulating her, or was she actually _happy_ to be chosen? She was certainly _trying_ to look happy, but it was probably just an act for the cameras. After all, no one _wanted_ to be in the Games.

Well, technically, that wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of _Careers_ who wanted to be in the Games. But District Five wasn't a Career district. Far from it. In twenty-four years, they'd had exactly one volunteer for the Games – and even she hadn't really _wanted_ to be there. And maybe Sam didn't really _want_ to be there, but the idea of pretending to be excited for the Games wasn't usually an angle that District Five's tributes tried.

There was a first time for everything, of course. If that was the angle she wanted to go with, that was up to her. He and Mina could offer advice, but, ultimately, it was up to the tributes to decide their strategy, the angle that would work best for them.

Phoebe, for her part, certainly didn't waste any time fretting over whether Sam's gratitude was genuine or not. She quickly opened the second envelope and drew out the other slip of paper. "And the male tribute that you've chosen is … Isaiah Shelby!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted quickly, revealing a burly young man with dark skin, a black afro, and brown eyes. A scar under his left eye ran down his cheek, and there was another scar across his neck. Atticus nodded a little. This was closer to what he'd been expecting from the district.

The boy, however, clearly hadn't been expecting it. After staring at the stage for a moment, he suddenly burst out laughing. Not just a small chuckle, but a big, hearty laugh, ringing through the square. The Peacekeepers stepped forward, but the boy shrugged them off immediately and strode confidently towards the stage. He took the steps two at a time and quickly took his place beside Sam.

Phoebe was practically beaming. "Congratulations, Isaiah."

"It's Snap."

"Pardon?"

"People call me Snap."

"Snap?"

"Yes."

Phoebe shrugged. "People actually call you that."

The boy was clearly losing his patience. "Yes."

"Why?"

Snap smirked. "You'll find out in the Games."

Phoebe couldn't hide a grin. That was exactly what the Capitol would want to hear. Exactly the sort of cryptic response they would theorize about for the next hour or so. If nothing else, at least they seemed to have two tributes who might appeal to the Capitol crowd.

Or maybe not. It wasn't always easy to predict _what_ would appeal to the Capitol. One year, they seemed to like an underdog, and the next they would cheer as a Career easily decimated the competition. One year, they would favor a twelve-year-old with spunk, and the next year they might back an eighteen-year-old with experience.

Maybe what they really wanted was _variety._ Something new and different. And Sam and Snap were nothing if not different.

Snap held out his hand to Sam – a hand with the word "FEAR" tattooed across his knuckles. An odd sort of tattoo to get, but, then again, most people in District Five didn't have the luxury of tattoos. The boy's family was clearly well-off. So what was he doing here?

After Sam shook his hand, however, as he turned towards the crowd, Atticus caught a glimpse of the other hand, with knuckles that read "LESS." Oh. _Fearless._ That made sense. Another thing the Capitol would probably latch onto right away.

"I'll take the boy," Mina decided as the tributes were led away. Atticus knew better than to argue. Mina usually took the tribute she considered more promising, claiming that she'd be able to give them better advice. And maybe she was right. But so far, her advice hadn't been enough to bring a tribute home. But maybe this was the year that would finally change.

* * *

 **Samantha "Sam" Hacka, 16**

Now she would finally get what she wanted. Sam hid a smile as her parents slipped out of the room. Just a few more days, and she wouldn't have to pretend anymore. She wouldn't have to pretend that everything was okay. Once tributes were in the arena, _everyone_ realized that things weren't okay. That they _weren't_ going to make it. That every breath they took was simply delaying the inevitable.

It just so happened that she'd realized it first. She was ahead of the game. She already realized just how pointless, how hopeless, everything was. And not just in the Games, but everywhere in District Five. Everywhere in Panem. For years, she had wanted nothing more than an end to the rage and the pain inside her. Now she would get what she wanted.

What she wanted.

This _was_ what she wanted.

Wasn't it?

Sam stood up, pacing the room. It had to be. At the reaping, when her name had been called, she'd been frightened at first. But then … then everything had changed. Everything had become clearer. Lighter. As if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The burden of pretending, of convincing everyone else that things were okay.

Nothing was okay now. But that wasn't a change. Nothing had _ever_ been okay. It was just that now everyone else realized it. For her … for her, it was just another day.

But she hadn't told them that. She hadn't told her parents, and she certainly hadn't told her friends. She'd insisted she had no idea why she'd been chosen, and that part, at least, was true. How had the district known? Had they been able to tell that this was what she'd really wanted? Had they decided to set her free?

Maybe. Or maybe it was simply dumb luck. Maybe none of them had really had a clue who they were voting for. After all, how many other teenagers her age did she really know? How many names would she have recognized on the ballot?

Not many. And the same was probably true across the district. People hadn't really had any idea who they were voting for. They'd simply chosen a name, and she had gotten lucky. Now she had the chance she needed.

* * *

 **Isaiah "Snap" Shelby, 18**

He just needed to keep a cool head. That was all. Snap shook his head as the rest of his family paced the room. No hugs, no tears – that wasn't exactly their style. But he could tell that they were agitated, nonetheless. His father was shaking his head. "If I find out who voted for you…"

Snap shook his head. "Then what? You'll kill them? That doesn't sound very practical." And it wasn't. Because if enough of the district had voted for him – even if it was by some slim margin – that was still a significant number of people. Did his father plan to kill all of them?

No. Of course he didn't plan to kill them. That wasn't usually part of the plan. _Killing_ people was bad for business. But that wasn't to say that it was never required. He'd killed, after all – nearly two years ago now, when a member of a rival gang had pulled a knife on him. He'd been defending himself, yes, but he had to admit that there was a certain … satisfaction to knowing that he'd been able to hold his own in a fight with _real_ stakes.

Now he would have to do it again, with all of Panem watching. And not just once. Not just one kill. If he wanted to make it out of the arena alive, twenty-three other tributes would have to die. There was no telling how many of those he would have to kill himself. One of their Victors had killed nine tributes. And the other…

Well, that didn't really count.

And, in any case, the Gamemakers weren't about to let that happen again. Certainly not during their Quarter Quell. They would do their best to ensure that this was the best and bloodiest Hunger Games yet. And if he wanted to survive the Games, then he needed to be ready to give them that.


	9. District Six: Fair is Fair

**District Six Reaping  
** **Fair is Fair**

* * *

 _Three days before the reaping_

 **Finch Ares, 18**

This was just like any other year. Finch glanced around as their family sat silently around their small table. The family – and, it seemed, the whole district – had been quieter since the announcement of the Quarter Quell twist. As if there was an agreement that if no one talked about it, maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe the reaping would go on as normal, with two names drawn out of a bowl at random.

It seemed like an odd thing – wishing for that to happen. In terms of what would happen _after_ the reaping itself, this was just like any other year. Two tributes from District Six would be sent to the Capitol. More than likely, neither of them would be coming home. District Six hadn't brought home a Victor since the very first Games – before Finch was even born. She had no memory of those earliest Games, but she knew her parents did. They remembered the First Games … and what had come before. The rebellion. The fighting. What had happened to her grandfather…

"You don't think they'll vote for me because of…" Finch trailed off, unsure. Her family had agreed never to speak of what had happened, but if she was in more danger of being chosen because of it, she deserved to know.

"Because of what?" her father asked.

Finch lowered her voice. "Because Grandfather was a rebel?" Even saying the words out loud felt strange. She hadn't spoken the word 'grandfather' in years, since her parents had scolded her for even speaking of him in public.

To her surprise, her father shook his head. "I doubt it."

That wasn't quite the answer she'd expected. "Really?"

Her mother nodded, her voice low as she replied. "My father was a rebel, but so were a lot of people back then. As long as you haven't gone around telling people, or giving the impression that you're _proud_ he was a rebel…"

"Of course not!" Finch exclaimed. There was a part of her, of course, that wished the rebellion had succeeded. But she knew better than to say so out loud. Everyone in District Six did – or, if they didn't, it was a lesson they learned quickly.

"Then you're probably as safe as you can be," her father assured her. But the words weren't as reassuring as they were meant to be. _As safe as you can be_. There was no way to make sure she would be completely safe when the time came for the reaping. This was her last year. A few more weeks, and she would be nineteen. But the reaping was _before_ then. No one would be safe – _really_ safe – until after the reaping.

Finch was silent as she cleared the table and scraped the dishes clean. The water line to their building was broken again. The workers kept saying they would get around to it, but they had other priorities. The Capitol's factories came first. Then the wealthier citizens. _Then_ they could worry about whether one of the district's worn-down tenement buildings was getting enough water.

Besides, there was hardly enough to bother scraping off the plates – just a bit of blackened, crusted edges of their supper that had been too burnt to even touch. Her mother had left it on the stove too long again. But Finch knew better than to complain about that, or else _she_ would end up having to cook dinner for a while. _If you want something done right,_ her father always said. He would probably have done it himself, but his shift usually ended a little later than theirs.

Finch gave her parents a hug before heading to her room and flopping down on her cot. Another day. Another night. Only three more days until the reaping, and, as long as she survived that, she would be safe from the Games forever. Safe to work her shift unloading trains at the station day after day. Safe to come home to a burnt meal and water that didn't run, in a building that was rusting and creaking and would probably fall apart one day. Safe to live out the rest of her life in District Six.

Finch closed her eyes. Maybe it wasn't much of a life. Maybe it wasn't what her grandfather had been hoping for when he'd joined up with the rebels. But it was the life she had. And, for now, that would have to be good enough.

* * *

 _Night before the reaping_

 **Zion Harper, 16**

This year was different. He could feel it already. Zion pulled his jacket a little tighter, trying to shield himself from the cold. But it didn't do any good. The jacket was too thin, too small, and too tattered to really offer much protection. The alleyway he'd settled down in for the night didn't offer much shelter, either – not from the wind that drifted up and down the streets, sending the others like him scurrying for shelter wherever they could find it.

The others like him. Zion tucked his knees to his chest, leaning back against the wall of the building behind him. He could see a woman a little farther down the alley, crouched low beside a garbage can, maybe hoping to search through it for scraps later, once the wind died down. He'd seen another man pass by earlier. He hadn't spoken to either of them, but they hadn't tried to chase him away. That was something.

Sometimes people did, after all. Sometimes people who knew him – who knew what he'd done. Sometimes people who simply thought he was trying to steal their spot, their food, their shelter. But he knew better. When people were threatened, they would fight back. And he wouldn't be much good in a fight – or any sort of tough spot, really. That was what had gotten him in this position in the first place…

It had been four years now. Four years since the fire that had broken out in the factory. He'd gotten separated from his younger brother, Lucas, and he had run. He had saved himself. He'd made it out alive, and Lucas … he hadn't. It wasn't until the workers pulled his corpse from the rubble three days later that Zion had even known for certain what had happened to his brother. He'd never even come close to making it out of the building.

Zion rolled over and closed his eyes, but he already knew he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. The district had already voted, of course. He couldn't do anything to change that. Maybe they'd even voted for him. After all, if they were looking for someone who deserved it…

He'd left his brother to die. Maybe there were others who had done worse things, but he couldn't shake the feeling that things were about to go wrong. Very wrong. Ever since Lucas had died, nothing had seemed to go right for him. His parents had thrown him out of the house, and he'd been living on the streets ever since. Taking what work he could get, eating what he could manage to buy with his earnings. Sometimes Mayor Monroe allowed him to work in his yard. Zion knew he should be grateful for that, but he knew the mayor didn't really care how good of a job he did. He simply felt sorry for him. He was living off of other people's _pity_ , and that was worse, in a way, than if he was simply starving.

But not bad enough for him to refuse the work on principle. Especially because working for the mayor meant he got to see _her_. The mayor's daughter, Angelica. A pitying glance or two from the mayor was worth it if it meant he got to see her, to hear her voice – or, even better, to hear her play. Sometimes at night, he would choose an alleyway near the mayor's house, just to hear the sound of her violin.

Zion rolled over again, trying to find a more comfortable position. Maybe it sounded pathetic, but getting to hear a little music every now and then was one of the best things in his life. One of the _only_ good things that was left in his life – and certainly one that he didn't deserve. And if District Six _did_ choose him for the Games in the morning, he was grateful he had been able to enjoy it, if only for a little while.

* * *

 **Elva Dent, 39  
** **Victor of the 1st Hunger Games**

Even after all these years, she still wasn't ready for the reaping. No one ever was. No matter how much Elva tried to tell herself that she could do this, that all she had to do was make it through another reaping, it never seemed quite the same as it had the year before. It was always worse than she remembered, and this year … this year wouldn't be the exception.

How could it be? Other years, after all, the reaping was left up to chance. It was simply bad luck that she'd been chosen for the Games all those years ago, and, every year since then, her tributes had been able to blame their reaping on sheer chance. Or, of course, the decision to take a large amount of tesserae, but, even then, there was still an element of chance. There were so _many_ teenagers who took tesserae, so many who put their names in extra times, that it evened the odds a bit.

But not this year. This year, it wasn't up to chance. It was up to the district. And maybe that should have made it a little better. Maybe, at the very least, it meant that they wouldn't be sending anyone too young into the Games. But age wasn't everything. There had been plenty of older tributes who hadn't deserved to be sent into the Games.

Elva took a deep breath as she stepped out of her house in Victors' Village, slowly making her way to the district square. She wasn't in any rush. She had left early enough that there was no danger of arriving late for the reaping. She knew better than that.

 _Everyone_ in District Six knew better than that.

This year, more than ever before, they surely knew better than to step out of line. The purpose of the Quarter Quells, after all, was to remind people of what had happened during the rebellion. A reminder to those who were too young to have witnessed it firsthand. Those who didn't remember.

But _she_ remembered. She had been fourteen when the war had ended, fifteen when she had been reaped for the First Hunger Games. She had survived both the rebellion and the Games, and she had come home. Home to her grandfather. Home to a district that hadn't seemed to know how to respond to her victory.

Not that she blamed them for that. _She_ hadn't really been certain how to respond at first. There were still times when she wasn't certain how she felt about the Games. She was glad she was still alive, of course. Glad she had survived. But the things she had done in order to come home … She had killed seven people. _Seven_. Seven teenagers who would still be alive, if not for her.

Except that wasn't quite true, either. Most of them would have died anyway. Whether by her hand or by someone else's, all but one of them would have perished in the arena. Yes, she had killed, but she had killed people who were going to die, anyway. Maybe that didn't make it any better, maybe that didn't make it _right_ , but that did make it a little easier to live with.

And it had all happened so fast. Her Games had been over in a matter of hours. Now the Games dragged on for days. Weeks, even. Two years ago, the Games had lasted almost three full weeks before the Victor, a Career girl from District One, had finally finished off the last of her opponents. She couldn't imagine being in the arena that long. She could barely stand being away from District Six that long in the first place.

No. No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't the district that she missed while she was in the Capitol. It wasn't the smell in the air, the smoke from the factories, the odd silence in the square. It wasn't the crumbling buildings and the streets that were in desperate need of repair. It wasn't the Peacekeepers and the curfews and those unfortunate enough to not _have_ anywhere to go after curfew. She didn't miss any of that.

It was her grandfather that she missed, when she was away. He was the only family she had left, and now … now he was usually too sick to get out of bed. The very old and the very young were excused from going to the reaping, and for that, she was grateful. She'd enlisted the help of a family friend to care for him while she was gone, but it wasn't the same as being there herself.

She just hoped these Games didn't last as long as previous years.

Elva bit her lip as she reached the district square. That sounded like a terrible thing to hope for – that the tributes in the arena would die quickly so that she could come home. But that was usually the worst part of the Games – _waiting_ for something to happen. _Waiting_ for someone to die, so that the Games would keep moving. She hoped that it would be one of her tributes coming home, of course, but it would be all the better if they could do it quickly.

Elva avoided looking at the crowd as she made her way to the stage. She was getting ahead of herself. In the twenty-three Games she'd mentored since her own victory, she had yet to bring a tribute home. If this was the year she finally broke that streak, it wouldn't matter how long the Games lasted. District Six would simply be grateful to have another Victor. That would be enough.

"Quite a crowd."

Elva turned sharply, glancing down as District Six's escort, Canton Rhodes, joined her onstage. "I guess it is." From the way the buildings were crammed together into such a small space, it was easy to forget just how many people lived in District Six. More than any other district. Which meant that this year, they had more potential tributes to choose from than any other district. But was that good or bad? They had more options, but that also made it more likely that people had simply chosen a name at random.

Like she had.

"Wonder who they picked," Canton ventured, as if he'd been able to tell what she was thinking. Or maybe he was simply wondering the same thing. Wondering if handing the choice over to the districts would result in stronger tributes, or would simply produce tributes that no one cared about, no one knew, no one would feel guilty about voting for.

"I guess we'll find out soon," Elva agreed as Mayor Monroe joined them.

Canton nodded. "Ready to get on with it?"

"Ready for it to be over," Elva reasoned.

Canton smiled. "Some things don't change."

Elva looked away. Canton had been her mentor during the Games, and had encouraged her during training to simply charge into the fighting without looking back. She had taken his advice. She had plunged in, gotten her hands dirty, and gotten the Games over with. But a part of her … well, a part of her hadn't been able to leave it behind so quickly. A part of her had never truly left the arena.

He didn't understand that. _Couldn't_ understand that, as hard as he tried. And she knew he tried, but there was an element of the Games that only her fellow Victors really understood. Still, she was grateful that he was still here. Escorts in other districts had come and gone, but he'd stayed on to escort after learning he wouldn't have to mentor anymore. Maybe he was getting attached to District Six. Maybe he simply enjoyed the challenge of working with a district that no one else seemed to want.

Canton reached up and took the microphone from the stand. "Hello again, District Six. It's good to be back."

No one cheered, but the crowd immediately fell silent. Obedient. Respectful. Whatever their opinion of the Capitol was – and it usually wasn't good, though few would say so aloud – most of them at least tolerated Canton, at least partly because he wasn't particularly eccentric. His brown hair was tinted slightly red, but, aside from that, the only thing that would set him apart from an average district citizen was his height. When she stood next to him, he only reached a little above her waist. As far as Capitol citizens went, he certainly wasn't the most intimidating.

And this year, they couldn't even blame him for what was about to happen. For choosing two of their children to be sent to their deaths. Because this year, he had no say in the matter. Not that he ever really had any control over which name he happened to pick, but grieving families always wanted someone to blame.

This year, they would have to blame their neighbors. Their friends. The strangers they passed on the street. This year, the district was to blame for choosing the Games' victims. Mayor Monroe's hands were trembling a little as he handed Canton the envelope. He had a daughter, she knew. How old was she now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Somewhere around there. Old enough to be on the first few sections of names, certainly. She hadn't flipped the pages past the eighteen-year-olds, herself, but there were plenty of people who would consider a sixteen-year-old just as good a prospect.

She had been fifteen, after all, when she'd been chosen. Others had been younger. But only one tribute younger than her had ever _won_ the Games. The title of "youngest Victor" was one she'd been happy to cede to Tobias. It meant that younger tributes had a chance – however slim. It meant fewer young tributes crying onstage in front of their families, certain they were doomed. Tobias had given younger tributes a sliver of hope that they could do the same.

If the district had any sense, of course, this year's tributes wouldn't be that young. Not this year, when the other districts were surely sending their oldest, strongest, and best. Canton opened the first envelope, getting right to business. "Finch Ares!"

The crowd remained silent as a girl stepped out of the eighteen-year-old section. She was tall and strongly built, with pale skin, straight brown hair, and dark brown eyes. Not a bad choice, maybe, but that wasn't much comfort to the girl, who was shaking her head in disbelief. Elva glanced over at Canton as the girl made her way towards the stage. She'd had the same look on her face twenty-four years ago, when she'd been chosen. There were so many people in District Six, and _she_ was the one who had been chosen.

Finch took a deep breath before climbing the stairs to the stage, where she towered over Canton as he reached up to shake her hand. "Thank you for joining us, Finch," he offered warmly, as if she'd had a choice. Or maybe he was simply grateful she hadn't made a fuss. "Anything you'd like to say to the district?"

Finch shook her head, maybe worried that if she tried to say something, the wrong thing might come out. Or tears might come out, instead. As it was, she managed to keep a neutral expression as Canton turned back to the crowd and opened the second envelope. "Zion Harper!"

There were a few murmurs in the crowd as a boy stepped out of the sixteen-year-old section. He was tall and lanky, with a light tan, unkempt dark brown hair, and small, dark eyes. As he took a few hesitant steps towards the stage, the murmurs in the crowd turned to jeering – the loudest coming from the fourteen-year-old section. The boy ignored them, trying to keep his eyes on the stage as he neared the steps. Canton held up his hands for quiet, and the crowd finally settled as Canton held a hand out to Zion. "Thank you for joining us, Zion."

"Sure," the boy muttered, shaking Canton's hand before moving on to Finch. As he held out his hand, Elva could see the scars on his arms. Burns of some sort, if she had to guess.

Finch and Zion shook hands, each locking eyes with the other, sizing each other up, completely ignoring Canton as he turned back to the crowd. "Congratulations to this year's tributes, Finch Ares and Zion Harper!"

No one cheered, but that wasn't unusual. Being chosen for the Games in District Six wasn't something that merited applause. The crowd began to disperse, and the Peacekeepers led Zion and Finch to the Justice Building. And, just like that, the reaping was over. Just like any other year. The rest of the district would go back to minding their own business, and she would do her best to keep one of these two tributes _alive_ for the next few weeks. But she couldn't shake the hope that maybe – just _maybe_ – this would be the year one of them would actually come home.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18**

This wasn't fair. Finch wrung her hands as her parents sat on either side of her, trying to offer what little comfort they could. But there was really nothing that they could do. Nothing they could say that would make this better. She was going into the Games, and, worse, her own district was sending her there. Her parents had said there wasn't much chance of her being picked, that people wouldn't care that her grandfather had been a rebel as long as she kept her mouth shut about it.

And maybe they hadn't cared. Maybe they'd simply picked a name near the top of the list. The name of someone who seemed big and strong and maybe even capable of winning the Games. Maybe they'd picked her because they genuinely thought she had a chance.

But that didn't make it any better.

Finch held her parents close as the Peacekeepers knocked on the door. Was it time for them to leave already? It seemed like they had just arrived. Maybe the Peacekeepers were trying to hurry things along. Maybe they assumed that anyone the districts voted to willingly send into the Games probably didn't have many people to say goodbye to.

They were wrong. Maybe her family wasn't large, but her parents loved her. At best, they wouldn't see their only child again for weeks. And at worst…

No. No, she couldn't let herself think about the worst. She couldn't even consider it as a possibility. She wasn't going to die in the Games. In a few weeks, she would be coming home. She had to. Her family needed her. And she needed them.

Finch managed a smile as her father slipped a charm into her hand to take as a district token. "You can do this," he whispered as the Peacekeepers opened the door. Finch closed her hand tightly around the charm as the Peacekeepers led her parents away. Maybe she could. Maybe she really _could_ do this. Maybe. And right now, 'maybe' was good enough.

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16**

He'd known this was coming. Maybe it was even fair. Zion paced the empty Justice Building room, shaking his head. Of course the district had picked him. And of course the fourteen-year-olds – his brother's friends and classmates – would be glad to see him go. Everyone had loved Lucas. And he had let his little brother burn to death. Nothing would ever make that right.

He wasn't expecting anyone to come. His parents had thrown him out, and even before Lucas' death, he hadn't had many friends. The Peacekeepers might as well just take him to the train now.

He was about to open the door to tell them exactly that when it creaked open, revealing Angelica. Zion took a step back. "I didn't think you'd be coming."

She shook her head. "Of course I came. I just wanted to tell you … be careful. I mean, I guess I don't really have to _tell_ you that, but—"

Zion cut her off. "Thank you. I'll be careful." But would 'careful' be enough? If he wanted to survive the Games, he would have to be _more_ than careful. He would have to be ruthless. He would have to be a killer. Did he really have it in him to do that?

Zion swallowed hard. He already knew he had it in him to _let_ someone die. To leave them to burn to death and save himself, instead. How much different could it be to kill them personally? Was there really any difference?

Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn't exactly eager to find out, but his district hadn't left him with much of a choice. If he wanted to come back…

 _If_ he wanted to come back. Did he really want to come back to a district that despised him? A district where his parents had abandoned him? A district that had willingly voted him into the Games? Was that really a place he wanted to come home to?

Suddenly, Angelica threw her arms around his neck. "Don't you dare," she whispered, as if she'd heard his thoughts. "Don't you dare give up. You're coming home, you hear?"

Zion nodded weakly. He would try. He would try to come home – not for his parents, not for his district, but for her. At least he had one good thing in his life to come back to. And maybe – just _maybe_ – one good thing was enough.


	10. District Seven: Rumors

**Trigger Warning:** Basil's stepfather is physically abusive. He makes an appearance in the pre-reaping POV and is mentioned in the goodbye POV. If you'd like a summary of either or both, just shoot me a PM.

* * *

 **District Seven Reaping  
** **Rumors**

* * *

 _Four weeks before the reaping_

 **Narra Tarot, 14**

She usually ignored the rumors. The whispers when she walked by – which wasn't often. But her clan needed to trade their herbs in the center of the district every now and then, and the others were busy right now, so she had been sent. She knew exactly which shops to go to for the best deals, but she couldn't help straying from the path every now and then. There were so many different sights and sounds in the center of the district.

Not that she would ever want to _live_ there. No, she was happy living in the forest with her parents, her grand aunt, and her cousins. There, she could be closer to the trees, the plants, the animals that she loved. Officially, residents of District Seven weren't allowed to live in the forest itself, but it was one of those rules that was usually ignored unless someone started causing trouble. And her family didn't cause trouble.

Few people in District Seven did. There were the usual petty thieves and criminals who lurked in the dark alleyways of the district. There were gamblers and prostitutes, street urchins and drunkards, but no one truly threatening to the Capitol's control. They'd learned their lesson twenty-four years ago, during the rebellion. Since then, District Seven had stayed in line – to the point where the Capitol hadn't even felt threatened by the idea of a rebel's grandson winning the Games. Not that Filbert had ever expressed any rebellious notions himself, but the idea of the relative of one of the most famous generals winning the Games would have been unthinkable at their beginning.

At least, that was what she imagined. No one really wanted to talk about things like that. Not even her cousins, who were usually quite happy to talk about _anything._ But the topic of the rebellion was usually considered off-limits, in case someone else heard and thought that they were _advocating_ rebellion.

Which, of course, they weren't. But that wouldn't stop rumors. Just as nothing would stop the rumors that they were a family of witches living in the forest. Which was, of course, ridiculous. Just because they gathered herbs and brewed potions and read books written in ancient languages didn't make them _witches_. And it certainly didn't make them dangerous.

Narra smiled as she made her way to her first stop – a little store on the edge of the square. A medicine woman named Willow who was usually more than happy to buy some of her herbs. Willow smiled when she saw her coming. "Lovely day, isn't it, Narra?"

Narra held up her basket. "I bet it'd be even lovelier with some of these."

The old woman chuckled. "Let's see what you've got there." She leaned over to examine the roots and herbs. "Where do you _find_ these, young lady?"

Narra smiled. "In the forest. You just have to know where to look." Her family always knew where to look to find the best herbs – the ones no one else knew where to find, and few knew all the uses for.

Soon, she was on her way to the next shop. And the next. By the time she headed back to her clan's house in the forest, her basket was empty and the sun was setting. Narra quickly scrambled up the nearest tree to get a better look. The sunsets were beautiful, but what came after them was even better. Up here, beyond the leaves and the branches, she could see the stars as they started to appear. It was almost beautiful enough to make her forget the destruction all around. The stumps where full, beautiful trees used to be. The smoke rising from the district's paper factories. The lights from all the buildings where people lived crammed close together.

It was different out here. She and her family had all the space they could want. As long as they provided a necessary service, they were free to do as they wished – almost beyond the Capitol's control.

Almost. Every now and then, a Peacekeeper would wander through to remind them that they were still part of the district. Every year, they had to attend the reaping – just like any other district citizen. And she and her cousins had the same chance of being chosen for the Games as anyone else. But all in all, things weren't so bad.

* * *

 _Eleven days before the reaping_

 **Basil Larch, 15**

He hoped the rumors would be enough to help him, because nothing else was going to. Basil flinched as he heard the door close. Kelvin was home. Basil squeezed his eyes shut, hoping. Hope. That was something he hadn't had in over a year, since his mother had died, leaving him in Kelvin's hands. But the announcement of the quell twist had given him a small sliver of hope. Hope that maybe this would be the year.

He'd thought about volunteering before, when things had gotten bad enough. When the bruises began to swell up and he could barely roll over on his cot without something hurting. When he rolled his sleeves down as far as he could to hide the burns, and insisted that he'd gotten the cuts on his legs from a stray dog down the street. Sometimes, he thought about volunteering – just to make it all go away. But when the reaping had come around, he'd never quite had the guts to do it.

But this year was different. This year, it wouldn't require even a second of courage at the reaping. All it would take was a whisper in the right ear, a word here or there. So few people knew his name, no one would suspect that the troublemaker named "Basil" that he was spreading rumors about was actually him. Some kid named Basil was planning to set fire to the Peacekeepers' quarters. The district would be better off if the kid were voted into the Games.

He hoped it would be enough.

Basil held his breath as Kelvin's footsteps came closer. Maybe he would see that the candle was out in Basil's room. Maybe he would assume he was already asleep. Maybe he would be too drunk to think it was worth the effort tonight. Maybe…

But then the door handle turned. Basil held back a whimper as he opened his eyes. A bottle was in one of Kelvin's hands, his belt swinging lazily from the other. "Why are you still awake, you little brat?" Kelvin grumbled. "Don't you know you're supposed to be asleep by now?" But Basil knew it would have been no different if he had actually been asleep. If he had been asleep instead, Kelvin would have accused him of being lazy. It had happened before. And it would happen again.

Unless he did something to change it.

An hour later, Basil lay in a heap on the floor, silently sobbing – too quietly to wake Kelvin, who had fallen asleep in the next room. Trembling, Basil pulled his tattered blanket a little closer, but even that slight movement made his arms ache. His limbs would feel like hell in the morning. But, for the first time, he was looking forward to the morning.

Morning meant he was one day closer to the reaping. If everything went according to his plan, he would never have to see Kelvin again. No matter how the Games went. If he lost, it would all be over. And if he won, he could tell the world what his stepfather had done. They would believe a Victor. They would _have_ to.

 _If_ he won. He wasn't delusional enough to think he had much of a chance. But even a slim chance was better than this – better than the nightmare he was already living in. People always talked about the horrors of the Games, all the terrible ways to die. But they didn't understand. Once tributes in the Games were dead, it was all over. That was better than this. Better than dreading every morning, living in fear of every evening. Even the Games would be better than the hell he was already living in. _Anything_ would be better than this.

* * *

 **Filbert Kosipo, 23  
** **Victor of the 17th Hunger Games**

He would feel a lot better once the reaping was over. Filbert watched as the crowd of people continued to gather in the square. His younger sister, Hazel, had already taken her place with the other seventeen-year-olds. The older sections of teenagers looked especially nervous. They probably realized what most people were surely thinking – that their district's best chance was to send in someone older, someone more prepared.

But those two weren't always the same thing. People assumed that older tributes had a better chance simply because of their age, but some of the first tributes to die in his Games had been eighteen years old. They had assumed that, because of their strength, they would be able to simply rush into the bloodbath and take what they wanted, while most of the younger ones had the sense to run away. He had only been fifteen during his Games, but he had survived. That was more than any other tribute from District Seven could say.

Every year, of course, he hoped that he would be able to help someone else say it, too. That he would be able to bring one of his tributes home. But after seven years of mentoring, he was beginning to realize what the other mentors had told him from the start – that there was only so much that he could do. He could give advice, he could try to arrange sponsor gifts, he could help the tributes appeal to the Capitol. But at the end of the day, it was up to them – and them alone.

But that didn't give him a free pass to stop trying. He still owed it to them to do his best – no matter what he thought of their chances. No matter how belligerent or nervous or outright hopeless they might be. And this year … this year the district would probably pick some stronger tributes. At least, he _hoped_ they would.

Mostly, though, he was just hoping they hadn't picked Hazel.

Filbert forced a smile as their escort, Vita Silvanus, joined him onstage. She didn't even bother returning the smile – or trying to look happy at all. Despite her cheery outfit and hair that had been styled to look like a tree, she clearly wasn't happy to be back in District Seven for a … twelfth year? Thirteenth? He had lost track somewhere along the line, but he was certain she hadn't. She was counting every year – probably every minute – until she could apply for a promotion again.

And get turned down again, probably. Year after year, the Capitol had stubbornly refused to move her to another district. A better district. Maybe they were tired of escorts wanting to transfer out of districts that they considered beneath them. Maybe they didn't want District Seven to turn out like Eleven and Twelve, which went through a new escort every year or two. Or maybe they simply didn't have anywhere else to move her. Maybe they thought that finally having a Victor in Seven would be enough to placate her for a while. Maybe all of the 'better' districts were already taken.

Whatever the reason, she was back in District Seven for another year. But that didn't mean she had to be happy about it. She was scowling as the mayor took her place onstage, handing Vita a pair of envelopes. She was probably annoyed that she didn't really have anything to do at this reaping but read two names. Usually, she had at least some say in who was chosen – or, at least, people liked to think that she did. It was easier to blame her than to blame sheer chance and bad luck.

But there was no luck this year. This year, the decision was up to the districts. He just hoped they'd made a good choice.

Vita barely bothered muttering a greeting before she opened the first envelope and removed a small slip of paper. "Narra Tarot, come on up! You're this year's first lucky tribute."

Lucky. Right. The name wasn't familiar, but at least it wasn't Hazel. That would have to be good enough for him.

As the fourteen-year-old section parted and a girl stepped out, however, Filbert couldn't help cringing. A fourteen-year-old? They had really picked a _fourteen_ -year-old? The girl, however, didn't look particularly surprised as she took a few steps forward, avoiding the crowd's gaze. She was about average height for her age and fit, with dark, wavy hair and narrow eyes that were fixed on the ground. She wore a dark green robe over a plain black shirt and soft brown pants. All in all, she certainly didn't look very threatening.

But neither had he. He'd been only a year older than her, not particularly strong or intimidating. And he had come back alive. Maybe she could, too. Filbert offered her a small smile as she climbed the stairs, but she barely glanced at him. She kept her eyes down, as if ashamed of something. Whatever the reason the district had for voting her into the Games, it didn't seem to be because they thought she had a chance. What had she done?

Vita, however, wasn't at all curious about her newest charge. She simply opened the second envelope – hoping, perhaps, for a better prospect. "Basil Larch! Come on up and join your district partner."

This time, it was the fifteen-year-old section that parted, making way for a small, scrawny boy with olive skin, floppy dark brown hair, and brown eyes. For a moment, Filbert thought he saw a hint of a nervous smile on the boy's face. But then he seemed to realize what was going on. He stood there for a moment, frozen, until the Peacekeepers started moving towards him. One of them grabbed hold of his arm, and the boy yelped in pain as they dragged him towards the stage.

"You've got the wrong person!" he insisted, but the Peacekeepers didn't listen. Soon, he was standing onstage beside Narra, who was watching him silently with curious eyes. Once onstage, however, the boy offered no resistance, and held out his hand to Narra before being told to do so. Narra shook his hand, and the boy flinched. Only a little. Only a tiny motion, but Filbert caught it. The look on the boy's face as he was led away – it was almost one of _relief._ The girl was keeping her composure, but she certainly didn't look like she _wanted_ to be there. But the boy … What was going on? Why had the district voted for these two? It didn't make any sense.

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14**

Maybe it made sense, now that she thought about it. There had been rumors going around the district for years. Rumors about her family in general, and about her in particular. The witch who crept out of the forest at night to cast spells. It wasn't true, of course, but it was enough to make people wonder. Enough to make them whisper. Enough for them to blame anything that might go wrong on her or her family. And, apparently, enough for them to want to vote her into the Games.

Narra took a few deep breaths as her family entered the room. It could have been worse. Her cousins Essa and Cintus were thirteen and twelve. Either of them could have been picked. _Both_ of them could have been picked. Instead, it was just her. She was fourteen. That was old enough. There were Victors who had been fourteen.

Well, there was _one_ Victor who had been fourteen.

But one was enough. Enough to offer a sliver of hope that maybe she could make it out of this alive. Narra held back her tears as her family wrapped her in a hug. There was always a chance. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe her age would make the others underestimate her. After all, there couldn't be too many younger tributes this year.

Then again, if District Seven was anything to go by, people hadn't exactly been hesitant about voting for people because of their age. Her district partner was only fifteen, after all. Maybe some of the other districts had behaved the same way. Maybe she would get lucky.

Maybe. But there were no guarantees. So she held on to her family as long as she could, until the Peacekeepers came knocking at the door. "Come back to us," her mother whispered, slipping a small bottle into her hand. One of her favorite scrolls was inside. Narra finally smiled a little as her family was led away. Coming back would take a lot of luck. But maybe luck would still be on her side.

* * *

 **Basil Larch, 15**

Maybe luck was finally on his side. The Peacekeepers had agreed to his request not to open the door, for which he was grateful. He could hear Kelvin outside, demanding to be let in. Maybe he would even do something stupid, like attack one of the Peacekeepers. He had to admit, that would be rather satisfying.

Not quite as satisfying, however, as hearing his name called at the reaping. He hadn't wanted to let on, of course, that he was glad to be going into the Games. That would raise questions that he didn't want to answer. Not yet. So he'd argued. Struggled a little. But it was all for show.

This was exactly what he had wanted.

Well, maybe not exactly what he _wanted_. But certainly better than the alternative. Better than living out the rest of his life under Kelvin's watch, tiptoeing around him for fear of unleashing his temper. Now he would never have to worry about Kelvin again. Either he would come home free of his control, or…

Or he wouldn't come home at all. That was the other possibility. Quite a large possibility. But even that would be better than what he would've had to face here in District Seven. A quick death in the Games would be better than what he'd lived through this past year. If he died, it would all be over. The pain. The humiliation. The shouting. It would all be gone.

 _Breathe._ Finally, the shouting outside the door died down, and Basil allowed himself a small smile. Kelvin wouldn't be coming in. Soon, he would be on the train, headed for the Capitol. He would be free. He would _finally_ be free.


	11. District Eight: Luck of the Draw

**District Eight Reaping  
** **Luck of the Draw**

* * *

 _Eleven months, three weeks before the reaping_

 **Dustine "Dusty" Foreman, 17**

"Last chance! Last chance! Place your bets!" Dusty called across the crowded room. The sixty-second countdown had almost begun, and the energy in the room was starting to build. Good. More energy meant more betting, which, inescapably, meant more winning. Webber's customers were usually the seedier sort, but even they tended to give their own district's tributes too much credit. Too much benefit of the doubt. They were betting on what they _wanted_ , rather than what was likely.

That was their own mistake to make, of course; she certainly wasn't about to point out their error in judgment. If they wanted to throw away what little money they had on the slim chance that the girl from their district would pull off an impossible feat, that was their business. Dusty flashed Webber a smile as the clock began to tick down. Only sixty seconds, and the Games would begin.

As the clock continued to tick down, Dusty saw a little girl across the room. Too young to be here on her own. Maybe she'd gotten lost; that happened sometimes in a crowded building, especially with so many people distracted by the Games. Dusty wove her way over to the little girl. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight. "What's your name, kid?"

"Calico Bunting."

Bunting. _Oh, shit._ That was the last name of the girl from their district. "Where are your parents?" Dusty asked, carefully maneuvering between the girl and the nearest screen. She didn't need to see what was about to happen.

"I don't know."

 _Okay, think._ Where would her parents be? Drinking at home? Drinking at a friend's house? Drinking at a seedy establishment like Webber's? That's what _she_ would be doing, if someone she knew was in the Games. Not her sister, maybe. She rarely saw her family anymore. It had been a few months since she'd dropped out of school and moved out of her parents' apartment. But if they missed her, they hadn't given any sign.

 _Seven. Six. Five._ The clock on the screen continued to tick down. _Four. Three. Two. One._ The gong sounded. Dusty herded the little girl towards the door, but she turned around just in time to see her sister, Violet Bunting – the sixteen-year-old girl everyone in their district hoped would be their next Victor – step off her pedestal and run straight into the boy from Two, who snapped her neck without hesitation.

The first death of the 24th Hunger Games.

Calico's eyes grew wide as the room erupted into groans. "Dusty!" Webber called from the counter. "Time to collect!"

"Collect what?" Calico asked, her eyes full of tears.

Dusty did her best to shrug. "Winnings."

"You bet against my sister?"

"I didn't bet."

"But if you had…"

"I would've bet against her, yes." Dusty shooed the little girl out the door. "Look, it's nothing personal. I'm sure your sister was great … just not a great tribute." She turned her attention back to the room, ignoring the little girl standing in the doorway, still crying. What was she supposed to do with a crying kid? She had more important things to worry about.

The rest of the day, they managed to turn a respectable profit. A little loss here, a little gain there, but, for the most part, they earned more than they lost. It wasn't until evening that Dusty noticed the little girl again – this time with her parents standing behind her. "Shame on you!" the father shouted, clearly quite drunk. "Shame on all of you! Making money off children dying! It's sick!"

Dusty shrugged, quickly calming the customers and offering the father a drink. "Sicker than letting yer kid run around places like this on the first day of the Games? Shame on _you_."

The father swatted the drink out of her hand. "Listen here, young lady. I don't know who you think you are, but—"

"Dusty. Dusty Foreman." She held out her hand. "And this charming fellow behind me is Webber." Charming. Right. Webber was nearly three times her age, but that hadn't stopped him from making a pass at her every now and then.

"When I tell the Peacekeepers—"

"You mean _those_ Peacekeepers?" Dusty jerked her thumb at a pair of Peacekeepers nestled in the corner. "They like a good bet as much as anyone else. And you're spoiling the mood. So I'd suggest you take the daughter you still have and get the hell out of here."

"You'll pay for this," the man growled.

Dusty rolled her eyes. "Sure."

* * *

 _Four months before the reaping_

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16**

"I should've known I'd find you here," Selwyn's mother scolded gently, opening the door to the study to find Selwyn tucked in the corner with a book. "You should've been in bed hours ago."

Selwyn glanced at the clock on the wall. "An hour and a half."

"That's not the point. You need to get some sleep."

"Why?"

"You have a test tomorrow."

Selwyn rolled his eyes. "Come on. You know I can pass that test with my eyes closed." One of the perks of having a mother who taught upper-level math was the free tutoring sessions. Not that he needed them often. He was at the top of his class in most subjects, and his mother knew it.

"You'll need to, if you stay up much later." She shook her head. "What are you reading?"

Selwyn held up the book – one of the rather impressive collection his family had managed to gather. All approved by the Capitol, of course – owning a copy of any book not on the Capitol's list was strictly forbidden. Still, that left plenty of approved literature. History. Science. Mathematics. Just not anything the Capitol might consider threatening.

Fortunately, there was nothing threatening about the study of bird migration – and it was a surprisingly fascinating subject. There weren't many birds in District Eight, unless pigeons counted. Pigeons and sparrows that made their nests in the tightly-packed buildings, who fed on the garbage in the alleyways. The pictures of the birds in the books were much brighter, much more colorful, than any he'd seen in his district.

His mother sighed. "All right. Finish the chapter. Then go to bed. And make sure to put out the lamp when you go to sleep."

"Of course." He wasn't careless enough to leave the lamp on overnight – especially not around so many books. She was only being careful, of course. His parents had worked tirelessly to get to where they were. To provide a better life for their children, building their lives up from nothing after the rebellion.

He would always be grateful to them for that. At a time when so many people in the districts had thrown away their futures on a hopeless cause, his family had kept their noses clean and built a life out of what they had left. Maybe they weren't perfect, but they were his, and he had every intention of making them proud.

Selwyn turned the next page in his book. What was he supposed to do to make them proud here in District Eight? It wasn't as if there were a lot of options as far as jobs went. The less intelligent students dropped out of school and went to work early – either in the factories or in various menial jobs throughout the district. Janitors. Trash collectors. Workers who loaded and unloaded the crates of fabric that were shipped in and out of the district.

Those who stayed in school had a few more options. Some became teachers, like his mother. Some rose through the ranks of the factories, overseeing the lower workers. A few owned their own shops – tailors and seamstresses, things of that sort. But none of those had ever really appealed to him. There _had_ to be something else he could do with his life.

Selwyn hid a yawn. Whatever it was, he could wait to find it. He was only sixteen. He didn't have to have his whole life plotted out for him right now. So many people did, and it looked dismal. So many teenagers his age ended up working alongside their parents in the factories for the rest of their lives. Marrying and having children who ended up doing the same thing all over again. That wasn't what he wanted.

* * *

 **Wolfrick "Woof" Loden, 21  
** **Victor of the 20th Hunger Games**

This wasn't what he wanted. This had never been what he'd wanted. Woof shook his head as he made his way slowly across the room. It had taken him a good twenty minutes to convince himself to get out of bed. Even a little thing like dressing or eating breakfast seemed like a chore.

It shouldn't, he knew. He should simply be grateful to be alive, like some of the other Victors were. So many of them, it seemed, had been able to move on, to go back to their normal lives. So why couldn't he? What made his Games so different?

Nothing, really. Certainly not from the audience's point of view. His Games hadn't been the longest. His marshy arena hadn't been the most frightening. He hadn't killed the most tributes or even witnessed any particularly horrific deaths. In fact, the only distinction his Games held – other than being the twentieth anniversary of the Games – was the fact that he'd taken the longest to recover. The longest period between the Games and the post-Games interview – that was his claim to fame.

Not that fame was something he'd ever wanted. He would've been perfectly content with his life before the Games. So many people in District Eight longed for something more, something _better_ , but he'd always been able to make do with what he had. Now he had more than he would ever know what to do with, but he would trade every last coin of his winnings, every square inch of his house, every moment of the audience's applause … he would trade all of it to go back to the way things were.

But he couldn't. None of them could. His Games were over, but he could never go back to the way things had been before. Every year – every pair of tributes he had to mentor – was a reminder that things were different now. Every death in the Games now was one more tribute he had failed to save. Thirty-eight of District Eight's tributes had died before his Games, but the deaths since his own victory were the ones he remembered most sharply. Not only had those tributes failed to come home, but _he_ had failed them. All of them.

And that was the worst part, really. Eventually, District Eight would get lucky again. Eventually, he would bring a tribute home. But even then, that victory would come at the cost of the other tribute's life, as his victory had come at the cost of his district partner. They hadn't been close – not really. They hadn't even met before the reapings, and they hadn't formed an alliance … but she'd still had to die in order for him to live. Somewhere in District Eight, her family was surely still asking why _he_ had been the one to come home, rather than their daughter.

He wished he had a good answer to that – to why _he_ was the one who had come back. But there was no answer. Not a good one, at least. Certainly not a satisfying one. He'd just gotten lucky. And she hadn't. Sometimes it was that simple.

Woof took a deep breath as he finally stepped out the door into the crisp morning air. His parents were probably already on their way to the square, along with his younger sister Velvet. She hated being late for anything, and as much as she dreaded the reaping – as much as _any_ child in District Eight dreaded the reaping – showing up late would be even worse. If by some chance she was picked, she was determined to be on time and presentable.

Woof swayed a little, steadying himself against the doorframe of the house. She wouldn't be picked this year. Any other year, there was a chance. A slim chance, certainly; his earnings as a Victor ensured that she would never have to take tesserae. But her name was still in the bowl. This year, it would have been in the bowl three times.

Except there _was_ no bowl this year. It wasn't up to chance. It was up to the people of the district. And surely they wouldn't willingly send a fourteen-year-old kid into the Games – not when only one fourteen-year-old had emerged alive after twenty-four years. They would pick someone who had a chance. Or someone they wouldn't be sorry to lose. Velvet didn't fit either of those descriptions. Everyone loved her. She was bright, friendly, dependable. Everything that he wasn't.

Even before the Games, most people wouldn't have thought he was good company. He had always been a little too quiet for most people's tastes. But he had never really cared. It had never really mattered _what_ the district thought of him. It wasn't any of his business what they thought. And his life wasn't any of _their_ business.

But now … now their opinion of _him_ could spill over onto his sister. If they thought _he_ wasn't trying his best, maybe they would vote Velvet in out of spite, to make sure that he at least _tried_ to bring a tribute home this time. He did try, of course. He _always_ tried. But he also knew that it didn't always look that way from the outside. That not everybody would understand that sometimes there was simply nothing he could do to save their son, their daughter, their brother or sister.

There had been nothing he could do, after all, to stop last year's tributes from dying. The girl, Violet, had been the first to die, and the boy had followed soon afterwards. Both of District Eight's tributes had been gone before the end of the first day. He hadn't had _time_ to send them anything, even if he'd been able to scrape together enough sponsors to send a gift. Sponsors often waited to see who would survive the first _day_ before sending anything.

So before the Games, he could offer advice and support. After the first day or so, he could try to gather enough sponsors to send something. But in between was a whole day where the tributes were essentially on their own. If they died during that time … well, that wasn't his fault. But that didn't stop people from looking for someone to blame.

Woof took another few steps down the path, trying to convince himself that it wouldn't matter. That a few dissatisfied families of previous tributes wouldn't be enough for Velvet to end up in the Games. That if they really wanted to help their tributes come home, they would have the sense to vote in someone who at least had a _chance_. That was what he would do.

 _Bullshit._

Woof shook his head as he made his way down the path towards the square. That wasn't what he would do, because that wasn't what he had _done_. He had simply chosen two names at random on the first few pages of each ballot, because he didn't really _know_ who would have a chance. No one did. Maybe they could vote for someone older, someone stronger, someone who seemed like they would be able to handle themselves … but that didn't always translate into success in the Games. There wasn't really any way to tell in advance who would have a chance and who wouldn't. Who would be able to keep it together once the action started and who would fall apart at the first sign of blood. Who had what it took to become a Victor and who didn't.

There was just no way of knowing. No one would have guessed, certainly, that _he_ would be District Eight's only Victor so far. What was so special about him? What set him apart from the twenty-three tributes who had died five years ago? He was alive, and they weren't. That was all. That was the only difference.

Woof's steps slowed as he neared the square. What would they do, he wondered, if he simply turned around and went back home? If he didn't show up for the reaping, or if he refused to go to the Capitol? Would anyone even notice, or would they simply go on with the show? It would be so easy not to go, not to be a part of this. He didn't _want_ to be a part of this…

Then he heard Fabian Priscus' voice, already booming across the square. The reaping was already starting. Woof hurried towards the square as fast as he could, all thought of abandoning the reaping forgotten. He couldn't do that. Not now. Not this year. Not during a Quarter Quell. Not while his sister was still eligible. He was certain she wouldn't be picked – or, at least, he kept trying to tell himself he was certain – but if she _was_ the one the district had chosen, he had to be there for her.

And if she wasn't … he still had to be there. He owed them that. He had one job – _one_ thing he could do for his district. He could try like hell to bring another Victor home. Maybe he hadn't succeeded yet, but that didn't give him the right to give up – not when there were other mentors who had been at it much longer without any sort of success. He didn't have any right to wallow in guilt when they were still working hard. He _had_ to do this.

There wasn't a choice.

Woof was out of breath by the time he reached the square, but, fortunately, Fabian was proving to be quite long-winded. This was his second year as an escort, and he was clearly trying to make an impression on … someone. Maybe whoever was in charge of assigning escorts to different districts. Maybe he was simply trying to make a good impression on District Eight. Or maybe he figured his enthusiasm would eventually rub off on the district citizens.

It wouldn't, of course, but Woof couldn't really fault him for _trying_ to make the reaping a little more exciting. And he was grateful for the delay. As quietly as he could, he made his way up the stairs to the stage, but Fabian still noticed. "And _there's_ our favorite Victor. Let's have a warm round of applause for Wolfrick Loden, everyone!"

Woof cringed a little. No one called him Wolfrick anymore. Not for a long time – even before his Games. But he didn't bother correcting Fabian, who was already disappointed enough that the crowd hadn't started clapping. Of course they hadn't. Maybe in some places – in the districts that were starting to train tributes for the Games – winning the Games was an honor. But not here. Here, it was certainly an accomplishment, but not one that deserved their praise. Here, he was simply a survivor. They didn't want to applaud him for killing other kids, and he didn't want their praise. Not for that. Not for anything he'd done in the Games.

And he certainly didn't deserve it for anything he'd done since.

Fabian shook his head and turned to Mayor Foulard. "Well, then, since we're all here, may I have the results of the voting?"

 _Since we're all here._ So they _had_ been waiting for him. Fabian had been stalling for his sake. Woof cringed as Mayor Foulard handed Fabian a pair of envelopes. It was _his_ fault the children had to wait anxiously for the results of the voting. _He_ was the one who had prolonged their anxiety a little longer. Perfect. If they hadn't been angry with him before, they certainly would be now. Fortunately, the voting was already over with…

"Dustine Foreman!"

Woof breathed a sigh of relief as the eighteen-year-old section began to part. They hadn't picked Velvet. She was safe for another year. And the girl in the eighteen-year-old section looked like … well, at least a reasonable choice. She was about average height and a bit stocky, with pale skin, auburn hair, and hazel eyes. Maybe she wasn't particularly muscular, but at least she looked rather healthy and well-fed. Not a bad choice, certainly.

The girl, however, looked rather confused for a moment – but then she suddenly burst out laughing. Woof raised an eyebrow, not quite sure what would be funny about being chosen for the Games. The Peacekeepers, however, took that as a sign to start moving in, and had almost reached her when she burst out of her section and sprinted for the stage, still chuckling under her breath as she took her place beside Fabian. "Well, hello there, Dustine," Fabian grinned, clearly happy to have a little excitement during the reaping.

"It's Dusty, actually," the girl answered, clapping him on the back. "Just Dusty."

Fabian nodded agreeably. "Well, then, Dusty, welcome to this year's Games."

"Thanks, Fabian," Dusty beamed."it's an honor to be here – really. But can I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"May I do the honors?" She nodded to the second envelope that Fabian held. "I've always thought your job looked so … exciting. Since this might be my last chance, can I have a go?"

Fabian smiled warmly and handed Dusty the envelope. "Now, how can I refuse a request like that? Go ahead, my dear."

Woof watched curiously as Dusty opened the envelope. Was she hoping to find a certain name inside? Or perhaps hoping, as he had been, _not_ to find a certain name? Was she just trying to make a good impression on the Capitol, or did she really think all of this was exciting? Whatever the case, she quickly slid the paper out of the envelope and called out, "Selwyn Trembal!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted almost immediately, making way for a boy in a dark grey suit and tie. The boy was taller than the girl, thin and gangly, with pale skin, medium-length chocolate brown hair, and dark brown eyes. His ears stuck out a little, and he had a well-defined jawline and a face that was set in a scowl as he stormed towards the stage, his hands clenched tightly into fists at his side. Before Fabian even had a chance to offer him the microphone, he shook his head wordlessly, still scowling at both the escort and the crowd.

Dusty, however, was just as cheery as she had been, holding her hand out to Selwyn without question. It was a moment before he shook it, and, even when he did, Woof could tell he was gripping her hand tightly. Dusty cringed a little but managed to squeak out, "Quite a grip you've got there!" before Selwyn finally let go. Fabian chuckled a little, but the crowd simply started to disperse. They weren't amused. But they didn't seem particularly horrified, either. As far as tributes who seemed like they had a chance, these two didn't seem bad.

Woof leaned back in his chair as the pair of them were led off towards the Justice Building. Having a firm handshake didn't save anyone in the Games, and neither did simply pretending to be excited. Both of them would have to do more if they wanted to come back home. And only one of them could. At best, he could only bring one of them home.

* * *

 **Dustine "Dusty" Foreman, 18**

She had known that her conversation with her family would be awkward at best. She hadn't seen any of them in so long, it probably wouldn't really matter to them that she was gone – or whether she was gone only for a few weeks or forever. Her parents still had three children – her younger sister Gladys and her brothers Clemence and Langly. She had always been the black sheep, anyway, and was the only one who had moved out. The only one who had the nerve to dream of something better than the life their parents had provided for them.

Dusty breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind them. She could hear arguing on the other side – her father shouting at someone. Finally, the door burst open, and Webber entered, shaking his head. "Looks like yer father thinks it's my fault you ended up getting picked."

"That's a load of crap," Dusty assured him. "It's my own damn fault. I'm the one who came to live with you, and _I'm_ the one who suggested we should open betting on the Games. Hell, _I'm_ the one who told that kid last year my name, and she probably told her parents. If there _was_ any sort of vendetta against me, I've got no one to blame but myself."

"If?"

Dusty shrugged. "Maybe it's just bad luck. I'm eighteen. My name was on the first page."

"How do you know that?"

"Doesn't take a genius to figure out they'd be listed alphabetically, and 'Formean' is pretty damn close to the start of the alphabet. So some probably picked me by chance, and maybe a handful or two knew about the betting. Enough to outweigh whoever else might've been unlucky enough to get some votes."

"I hope so," Webber agreed.

Dusty raised an eyebrow. "You hope I'm just that unlucky?"

Webber shook his head. "No. I hope there aren't really that many people in the district who hate you."

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16**

Did the people in the district really hate him that much? Selwyn shook his head as his mother offered him one of his favorite pens as a token. "I'm not taking anything," he insisted. "It's a _district_ token. And this district just as good as said that they didn't want me."

His father shook his head. "That's not what this means. It can't be."

"What else could it mean? You really think they voted for me because they think I have a _chance_?"

"Maybe—"

Selwyn shook his head. Maybe if this were a test at school. Or a trivia competition. Or a battle of wits. But it wasn't. It was the Hunger Games. And as much as he wished that brains won out over brawn in the Games, the truth was that it sometimes went the other way. And, more often, the Games went to a tribute who had _both._

He didn't. That should have been obvious. He had the brains to win, of course. The wits. The confidence, even. But physically, he was clearly at a disadvantage – especially when _every_ district would be sending their best and their brightest. Every district except District Eight, which had been cruel enough to pick him.

 _Stop it._ There was nothing to be gained from feeling sorry for himself. But right now, was there really anything to lose? It wasn't as if a cheery attitude really went a long way in the arena. How many of the twenty-four Victors so far had been rays of sunshine during the Games?

None. Not even the Careers who had wanted to be there. They had been excited, yes. Competitive. But not really _happy_. Even the ones who wanted to fight, who wanted the chance to kill, still weren't _happy_ to be in the arena.

So why should he be? There was no harm in acknowledging the facts of the matter. And the fact was, his chances weren't the best. Not when the Career districts would be sending their top competitors. Not when most districts would have the sense to send someone who actually had a chance, or…

Or maybe someone who deserved it. Was that really what they thought of him? Maybe he wasn't the friendliest person in the district. Maybe he wasn't the most cheerful or the most helpful. But there were certainly people who were _worse_. He couldn't think of anyone he'd actively _hurt_ – just some people he hadn't bothered to help. But that wasn't the same thing. Was it?

No. No, it was probably sheer dumb luck. But he still couldn't shake the feeling that something else was going on. That so many people wouldn't have flipped all the way to the sixteen-year-old section just by dumb luck. What did that many people have against him? What had he done wrong?


	12. District Nine: Like It Or Not

**Trigger Warning:** Ludwig is a rapist and murderer. His first POV involves him stalking a young woman. Nothing graphic actually _happens_ , but it's implied that it will happen later. If that's going to bother you, go ahead and skip it; I pretty much just summed it up anyway. His second POV contains mentions of his prior acts, but no particular details.

Also, just a heads-up that Brindle is a bit profane, but I went the _Battlestar Galactica_ route and replaced some of her more colorful word choices with 'frak' to avoid having to raise the rating due to language.

* * *

 **District Nine Reaping  
** **Like It Or Not**

* * *

 _Two months before the reaping_

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18**

He would have to be more careful this time. Ludwig slipped into the alleyway as silently as he could. There wasn't supposed to be anyone on the streets – not this late after curfew – but that was never a guarantee. There was always someone reckless enough – or perhaps desperate enough – to risk getting caught in order to make a profit, to have a little fun, or just to survive. There was always the chance that someone would be around to see him.

And he couldn't let that happen. Not yet. Not when he had just escaped for the third time. He wouldn't let the Peacekeepers catch him – not again. There was no telling what they might do this time. What they _might_ have done the last time if the ones who had found him had known what he was really capable of.

Ludwig shook the thought from his head. This wasn't about what he was _capable_ of. Everyone was perfectly capable of doing what he did. Everyone had fantasies. Desires. Desires darker than most people were willing to admit. The only difference was that he had the guts to act on them. He had the will to take what he wanted, and others didn't. It wasn't about what he _could_ do. It was about what he was _willing_ to do. And the simple fact was that he was willing to do more than most.

But not tonight. Tonight, he just wanted a safe place to sleep. A place where no one would find him, where he wouldn't be recognized. Would they still recognize his face? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they'd forgotten about him completely. But he would remind them. He would make sure they never forgot why they had come to fear his name.

But not tonight. He was tired after a long day. Ludwig glanced around the alleyway, making his way towards the other end, which was a bit more sheltered from the wind. It was dark, but that no longer bothered him. He'd spent enough nights in the cold, the dark, the wind. He didn't need warmth. He didn't need _comfort._ He just needed a place he could use for a few hours. That was all.

Then he heard a noise, and, suddenly, a figure appeared at the end of the alley, illuminated by one of the dimly lit street lamps. Ludwig crouched a little lower, but the figure didn't seem to notice him. From the sound of the clinking of high-heel shoes, it was a woman – or perhaps a girl. She stumbled forward a little, then backwards. Drunk, perhaps, or maybe just a bit disoriented.

Ludwig crept a little closer in the dark. The woman was counting something. Money, perhaps, from her latest customers. She was small – more of a girl than a woman. Foureen. Maybe fifteen. Inexperienced enough not to realize that flashing her earnings in the street – even a seemingly empty street – was a mistake.

A mistake she was about to regret.

Ludwig could feel his heart racing faster. It was a risk – a risk of being seen, a risk of being caught. A risk he didn't really need. Sure, she had money, but he could manage without that for a time. He didn't need to hurt her.

But he _wanted_ to. And that was what this was about, in the end. It wasn't about what he needed. It wasn't about what would keep him alive, what would keep him fed, what would keep him out of the Peacekeepers' hands. It was about what he _wanted_ , and what he wanted, in this moment, was to be in control again. For weeks, the Peacekeepers had taken that from him. And he had escaped. But escaping wasn't enough. He wanted that sense of power back.

Ludwig slunk along the wall of the building beside the alleyway, hiding in the shadows. She still hadn't noticed him. She had no idea that anything was wrong. This was going to be so easy. Almost _too_ easy. It was better when they fought, when they struggled, when they made him fight for control. But, for now, this would have to do. For now, she would be enough to satisfy his hunger.

* * *

 _Three weeks before the reaping_

 **Brindle Young, 18**

The sun was getting higher in the sky. Brindle blinked the sweat out of her eyes as she made her way across the field with her sack of seeds. Her sack was almost empty, but she always waited until she was completely out of seeds before heading back to refill it. And she always added a little extra to her sack if she could get away with it, so that it would take her longer to run out.

Because running out – and going back to refill her sack – meant a higher chance of running into Peacekeepers. She hated Peacekeepers. Hell, she even preferred to avoid her fellow workers. Sellouts, all of them – willing to trade their freedom and the freedom of their descendants for a little peace and quiet. Preferring to work mindlessly in the fields rather than fighting for what was theirs.

Of course, _she_ was working in the fields, too. But at least she was planning to do something. At least the Young name stood for something. And it wouldn't be long now. Not long before she and her siblings would remind the rest of the district exactly why their family had been so influential during the rebellion. She was too young to have any memories of the rebellion, of course, but to hear her mother tell it, their family had been a force to be reckoned with. Now…

Now, she was stuck in the fields, doing the same back-breaking work as the rest of the district, plotting and planning and waiting for the right moment. Maybe during the Games. That wasn't too long to wait. And maybe Johnny would be ready by then. He'd been working for months now. Surely it wouldn't take him too much longer to finish his explosive.

It was quite impressive that he'd been able to procure the supplies in the first place. He was the only one of the three siblings still in school, and he'd managed to endear himself to his chemistry teacher, who had been delighted when Johnny had offered to stay after school to help her organize supplies. He was careful never to take too much at once. A little here, a little there. Soon, it would be enough.

Soon. It seemed like she, Eve, and Johnny were always saying that. Always waiting for the right moment – a moment that seemed farther and farther away the longer they talked about it. When would it be time to _do_ something?

Brindle frowned as her hand brushed the bottom of her sack, revealing it was empty. Slowly, she trudged back to refill it again. Maybe it didn't feel like they were doing anything, but what was the alternative? During the rebellion, the rebels had been united. They'd had connections. They'd been able to communicate, to share resources, not only within the district but also from one district to another. Now, they had none of that. No organization. No structure.

Not yet.

That was what she kept telling herself. They weren't ready _yet_. They weren't organized _yet_. It was only a matter of time before people started to realize just how terrible things were under the Capitol's rule. Maybe the upcoming Quarter Quell would finally be enough to unite everyone against the Capitol. Maybe if they chose something horrible enough for the quell twist…

That was what the quell was supposed to be, after all. A reminder of the Capitol's control. Of just how absolute their power was. But they were only as powerful as the people in the districts _allowed_ them to be. If they only knew their real strength, they could band together and throw off the chains the Capitol had put on them.

But they _didn't_ know their strength. They had no idea just how powerful they really were. Brindle glanced around at the other workers in the fields. They kept their heads down, their eyes on their work, their feet shuffling from one place to the next, just trying to get through the next few minutes. The next hour. The rest of the day. That wasn't how she wanted to live her life. That wasn't who she wanted to be.

* * *

 **Raven Thatch, 35  
** **Victor of the 6th Hunger Games**

This was where she wanted to be. Raven clapped her twin brother Linus on the shoulder as the three of them – Raven, Linus, and their father – headed for the square. It had taken her years to come to terms with that. The idea that this was the life she _wanted_. Maybe it wasn't ideal. Maybe she wasn't always comfortable with what she had done to get here. But the fact that her family was able to live in comfort for the rest of their lives – that was her doing. And no matter how dark her memories of the Games were sometimes, she couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for that.

That wasn't what the Capitol wanted, of course. They wanted Victors who were interesting. Victors who were either proud of what they had done or who were consumed by their remorse. The idea that some of their Victors had simply gone back to their ordinary – albeit much more plentiful – lives after the Games was unthinkable to most people in the audience.

Yet that was what both of District Nine's Victors had done. Both she and Lydia had moved on with their lives. Lydia had married, and she and her husband had a son. Raven had invited her father and brother to live with her in Victors' Village. And with the generous winnings they had earned, they were able to build lives for themselves. Lydia and her husband Graham were able to raise their son together without having to worry about working long shifts. Raven and Linus would be able to take care of their father without fretting that he might not get the medicine he needed or that he might have to work well into his old age, as so many did. Maybe their lives weren't perfect, but they had made the best of what they were given.

Raven glanced around the district square as they arrived. Maybe it shouldn't have been particularly surprising to anyone that District Nine's Victors had been able to move on. That was exactly what District Nine had been doing ever since the rebellion. They had moved on, found a way to cope, and played the hand they'd been dealt. Maybe the Capitol's rule wasn't ideal, but as long as the district's citizens kept their heads down and their noses out of trouble, things weren't all that bad.

Or, at the very least, they could certainly be a lot worse.

Raven nodded to Lydia as the pair of them took the stage. They were quickly joined by District Nine's escort, Cornelius Marcus. Raven nodded cordially, and Cornelius nodded back. Maybe he wasn't as enthusiastic as some of the other escorts, but that really struck a chord with the rest of District Nine. They didn't _enjoy_ the Games the way the Career districts did, but they tolerated them. They were the price of the peace they'd been able to foster since the rebellion. Sending children to die was horrible, yes, but one or two lives a year was a small price to pay for preventing another rebellion.

Cornelius, for his part, seemed to agree. He saw his job as a duty – not as an opportunity for fun or social advancement, as some of the others did. He took his job seriously, and it showed in everything from his formal suit and tie to the fact that his golden-yellow hair wasn't intricately styled, his face pale but not unnaturally so, his eyes their natural light blue. All in all, he was a fairly ordinary escort for a district that didn't usually consider itself anything out of the ordinary. No wonder he'd lasted this long.

Twenty years now. This was Cornelius' twentieth year in District Nine. His first year had been the year of her Games, and he'd stuck around ever since. He was a familiar figure on reaping day – just as much as she and Lydia were.

But this year was different. This year, his _job_ was different. He didn't really having anything to do with who would enter the Games this year. Usually, he had at least a hand in it – quite literally. It was mostly up to chance, of course, but at least he had _something_ to do. This year, he didn't have any say in who was chosen. It was all up to the districts.

She still wasn't sure whether that made it better or worse.

It certainly made it worse for whoever was unfortunate enough to be chosen. Instead of blaming luck or chance for being chosen, they would have to blame their own neighbors. Maybe even their own relatives. But it also meant that the district had a chance to vote in someone who might actually have a chance at winning.

That was what she and Raven had done, after all. They'd chosen teenagers who had seemed strong enough, fit enough, capable enough. But there was no way of knowing whether the rest of the district had done the same. Not yet, at least.

But they wouldn't have to wait long. Raven drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair as Cornelius turned to Mayor York. No fuss. No frills. He simply took the two envelopes that the mayor handed him and turned back to the crowd. "Hello, District Nine. I have the results of the voting."

Raven tried her best not to roll her eyes. As if anyone really thought that the envelopes contained anything else. Cornelius slid the first envelope open. "Brindle Young, please come join us onstage."

Immediately, there was a shout from the eighteen-year-old section. But it wasn't a shout of fear. An angry string of curses rose as the crowd made way for a short, wiry girl with a round, soft face, long brown hair, and dark eyes. "Frak you!" the girl shouted at the top of her lungs. "Frak all of you! Frakking sellouts! Is this the reward we get for all our work? I get pawned off to the Capitol in exchange for what? A little peace and quiet? All of you can go to hell! All of you!"

 _Great._ Raven shook her head as the Peacekeepers started towards the girl. But before they could reach her, she stormed up to the stage on her own, glaring at everyone in sight. "Frakking sellouts," she muttered in Raven's direction. Raven glanced over at Lydia, who shook her head. Better not to say anything. If they made a scene now, it wouldn't help their district's chances with the Capitol. The girl could seal her own fate if she wanted, but they weren't going to let her ruin her district partner's chances.

Her district partner. Raven glanced hopefully at Cornelius as he opened the second envelope, completely unfazed by the girl's outburst. In twenty years as an escort, he'd seen pretty much everything, and so had they. Crying tributes, fainting tributes, tributes who fought against the Peacekeepers as they were dragged to the stage. Tributes who tried to run and tributes who kicked and screamed and at the top of their lungs. None of it did any good. They all ended up in the Games, in the end.

And, aside from her and Lydia, they had all died. All of them. The criers and the screamers. The fighters and the hiders. If Brindle wanted to scream a little before she went, too … well, maybe she was entitled to that. But it certainly wasn't going to win her any points with the audience.

Not that they would have loved her, anyway. The Young family name wasn't as well-known as it used to be, but during the rebellion, they had been some of the most influential leaders of District Nine's rebel faction. That might not have mattered, of course, if not for the girl's attitude. After all, Filbert's father had been one of the most famous rebel generals in Panem's history. That hadn't mattered to the Capitol, as long as _he_ hadn't seemed to agree with his grandfather's beliefs. And he had been careful not to.

Brindle, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly concerned with what the Capitol audience – or anyone – thought of her. She was still scowling as Cornelius read the second name. "Ludwig Ophiuchus."

There was silence as the crowd looked this way and that, searching for the boy. The name sounded familiar from somewhere, but Raven couldn't place it – not until she saw the boy, who stepped out of the adult section rather than one of the teenagers' sections. She hadn't realized that he was eligible – that he was that _young._ If she had…

Then what? Would she have voted for him? Maybe. His name was well-known enough around the district – one of District Nine's most famous criminals. But why had he come to the reaping? The Peacekeepers were already looking for him. Even if he hadn't been chosen for the Games, they might have found him.

Or maybe he had been counting on the fact that _most_ of the district was at the reaping, and that it would be more suspicious if someone _didn't_ come. Maybe he'd forgotten that he was even eligible, that the district might pick him. In any case, he was glaring and shaking his head as he made his way towards the stage. He clearly hadn't expected this.

Raven fought to keep from flinching as he joined them onstage. He was fit and muscular, with fair skin, dark eyes, and tattoos running up his arms. His head was bald, but his beard and mustache were dark brown. It was his smile that was truly disturbing, though – a smile that slowly crept over his face as he neared the stage, eyeing the three of them – Brindle, Raven, and Lydia. Three women. It was common knowledge that most of his victims were women, and that he often did more than simply rob and kill them.

Raven shook the thought from her head. That didn't matter now. He was a tribute now, no different than any other tribute they had mentored in the past. If he was already rather notorious in the district, then maybe the Capitol would enjoy that. Everyone did terrible things in the arena. If he already had some experience, maybe that was for the best.

But still…

Raven watched silently as Ludwig held out his hand to Brindle, his smile growing a little as she shook it. He gripped her hand tightly, but she simply squeezed right back. Maybe she didn't know who he was. Maybe she simply didn't care. Maybe she realized the truth – that they were both going to the same place now. That it didn't matter who they were or what they had done. All that mattered was what they chose to do now.

Once they finally let go of each other's hands, the Peacekeepers led the pair of them away. "Not quite what I was expecting," Lydia admitted once the cameras were switched off. "They do realize that we have a better chance of bringing someone home if they pick someone the Capitol might _like_ , right?"

Raven shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe they just figured the district would be better off without these two. If I'd remembered that someone like Ludwig was still eligible for the reaping…"

"I know," Lydia agreed. "But think it through. What if he _wins_?"

Raven opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What if he _did_ win? It didn't seem likely that the Capitol would allow someone like him to come out of the arena alive, but the Capitol had surprised her in the past. Maybe they would even enjoy the drama that a notorious criminal would bring to the arena. And if he won, they would have to ignore what he had done rather than punishing him. And once he was a Victor, he would have free rein to continue his rampage in the district, and no one would be able to stop him.

Raven exchanged a glance with Lydia as their tributes disappeared into the Justice Building. Whatever might happen if one of them returned, it was still their job to do their best to bring one of them home. They could worry about the consequences later. Right now…

"I'll take Ludwig," Raven offered before she could stop herself.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

 _Good question._ There was a part of her that wanted to take it back, to say that she wanted Brindle instead. Certainly she would rather not work with someone with Ludwig's reputation. But she didn't want _Lydia_ to have to work with him, either. Lydia would insist that she could take care of herself – and, of course, she could; she'd proven that in the arena – but, when it came down to it, she still thought of Lydia as her tribute. And if there was anything she could do to protect her…

But Lydia wouldn't accept that as an answer. "I think you'll have better luck with the Brindle," she answered instead. "Try to keep her from saying anything stupid."

"You mean besides everything she already said?"

Raven shrugged. "It's the reaping. Tributes get angry sometimes. Try to play it off like that."

"You think the audience will buy it?"

"No. But what other choice do we have?"

That was the problem, in the end. They _didn't_ have a choice – neither of them. Maybe Ludwig and Brindle weren't the tributes either of them would have asked for. Maybe they weren't the tributes they would have wanted. But they were the tributes they had. The tributes District Nine had chosen. And now they had a job to do, whether they liked it or not.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18**

Now they would have to listen to her, whether they liked it or not. Brindle couldn't help a smile as she clapped Eve on the back, then ruffled Johnny's hair. District Nine had made a big mistake if they thought that sending her into the Games would silence her family. Everything was ready. They'd been planning to act during the Games, anyway, despite some second thoughts about whether they were actually ready. Now … now they had no choice. The Capitol had forced their hand. They had to do _something_.

She just hoped Eve and Johnny would be able to manage it without her, because they would have no time to adjust the plan together. Not here, when the Peacekeepers were surely listening. Instead, she gave Eve's shoulder a squeeze. "You can do this."

Eve nodded back, as confident as ever. "So can you."

Maybe she could. Maybe she could even come home. Or maybe she would die in the arena. Either way, she would make sure that the Young family was a thorn in the Capitol's side to the very end. Brindle stole a glance at her mother and father, watching from closer to the door. Their mother was nodding along, a proud smile on her face. Their father didn't even look up. Finally, he spoke, quietly. "Brindle … this won't end well."

No. No, it wouldn't. But there wasn't a choice now. Every decision had already been made. There _were_ no good choices. There was no path from this point that ended well. All they could do was keep moving forward. Because now there was no going back.

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18**

Now they would have to respect him, whether they liked it or not. Ludwig couldn't help a grin as he paced the room. No one was coming. No one cared. There was no one in the district who would be sorry to see him go. Hell, if it had crossed his mind that he was still eligible for the reaping, he probably would have expected it.

They thought they were being clever, of course. Getting rid of him without the bother of having the Peacekeepers track him down. Sending him into a fight to the death, assuming that he wouldn't be the one coming out again. But if they thought it would be that easy to get rid of him, he was going to get the last laugh.

Because he wasn't going to die in that arena. Not when he already had the practical knowledge and experience that even most Careers lacked. For all their training, all their preparation, none of them had actually _killed_ before. None of them had blood on their hands going into the Games. He did. And that gave him quite the advantage.

So he would give the Capitol what they wanted. The blood. The guts. The gore. Because it happened to be the same thing _he_ wanted. The chance to kill without having to worry about being caught – it was almost too good to be true. They thought they were punishing him, when they were really giving him the opportunity of a lifetime. The chance to do what he was best at without any consequences, without any retribution. What more could he ask for?


	13. District Ten: Sins of the Father

**District Ten Reaping  
** **Sins of the Father**

* * *

 _Three months before the reaping_

 **Barnabas Ford, 18**

The breeze was gentle, and the flowers were still in full bloom as Barnabas made his way through the fields, slowly ambling from hive to hive, collecting a share of the harvest. They had to be careful; if they didn't leave enough for the bees to survive through the winter, the Capitol wouldn't be pleased when there weren't as many next year. But if they didn't take enough to satisfy the Capitol's demands _this_ year, the mistake could be just as costly. It was a balance – a balance his family had been able to maintain for a while now. They were probably the most successful beekeepers in District Ten.

That wasn't saying much, of course. His family was still dirt poor, their shack barely big enough for the four of them – him, his parents, and his little brother. Well, _younger_ brother. But they were still probably the best beekeepers in the district, because there simply wasn't much competition. It wasn't a job that many people wanted – not after what had happened during the rebellion. The Capitol had genetically engineered wasps and created tracker jackers, which had attacked the rebels and anyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby. The district had done their best to eliminate the swarms, and, for the most part, they had succeeded; tracker jacker attacks were now quite rare.

The trouble was, bees had gotten a share of the blame, as well – despite having nothing to do with tracker jackers. Hives had been smashed and burned in an attempt to drive out any animal unfortunate enough to have a stinger. It had taken a while for beekeeping to make any sort of comeback at all, and his family was one of only a few who had taken up the profession. They had been hoping that perhaps the Capitol would be willing to pay more for something so rare, but that wasn't how things had turned out. Still, it was enough to make a living. Enough to put food on the table.

Most of the time, at least. The rest of the time, he and his family went without. Both he and his brother took tesserae, and they had both dropped out of school years ago in order to help out the family business. But as far as he was concerned, he wasn't missing much. The crowds of people, the hustle and bustle in the district center … it wasn't for him.

Ford, on the other hand…

Barnabas chuckled a little at the thought. His brother would take any excuse to go into the district square – if only for a little while. He was probably there right this moment, buying food for dinner or flirting with some pretty girl. Or both. Knowing Ford, the girl was probably even flirting back. He had it all – the charm, the good looks, and strength and brains to match them. In a different world – a _better_ world – his brother could have been so much more than a beekeeper's son.

But this wasn't a better world. It was Panem, and they were lucky to have what little they could call their own. Barnabas stretched his limbs as he made his way over to the next hive. The family had positioned them at the perfect height for him – a little more than three feet off the ground – once he'd begun to take on more of the work. But the distance between hives was still quite a chore. His stunted legs would be quite sore by the time the day was over.

But it could be worse. Much worse. He could have been born into a family of cowhands or horsemen. Something that required more physical strength. All this took was patience. Endurance. And a bit of a thick skin. Those were things he had.

"How's it going?"

Barnabas turned, startled, to see his brother standing behind him. He'd been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't heard Ford sneak up on him. Ford was their surname, of course, but no one called his brother by his first name. Even their parents had grudgingly accepted that "Ananias" was a bit of a mouthful and had taken to using his nickname, as well.

Barnabas shrugged. "No stings, and plenty of honey. Good enough for me."

Ford reached down to clap him on the shoulder. "Sounds like a win to me. Let's go; I brought dinner." He took off for the house, leaving Barnabas trailing behind, smiling fondly. _Show-off._ Not that it mattered – not really. Being able to run fast wasn't everything in life. His brother would always be restless, discontent with the hand he'd been dealt because of his talents. Barnabas, on the other hand, was quite content with whatever he got. And that was good enough for him.

* * *

 _Three days before the reaping_

 **Ellery "Elle" Forster, 14**

She would just have to hope that the rumors weren't true. Elle wrapped an arm around her little brother Griff's shoulders as the pair of them headed for home. In three days, it would all be over, and things would go back to normal. The whispers would stop. Whispers that one of them – or maybe even _both_ of them – would be voted into the Games. Because she was too smart for her own good. Because she was the mayor's daughter. Or maybe just because she stuttered.

She was used to hearing those things from her classmates. But surely the adults wouldn't be so cruel. After all, her father was doing his best. It wasn't easy running an entire district – especially under the Capitol's eye. And it wasn't as if she could do anything about the rest. She was used to her classmates' teasing, but that was all it was: teasing. They weren't really serious about wanting to send her into the Games.

They couldn't be.

And even if they were, it wasn't as if _they_ would be voting. Only the adults over reaping age were even allowed to vote. And they wouldn't vote for _her_. They would vote for someone strong, someone capable. Someone who might actually be able to win. Or maybe someone who deserved it. A criminal or a troublemaker. Someone. Anyone.

Anyone who wasn't her.

Elle gave Griff's shoulder a squeeze. That wasn't quite right, either. Not just anyone who wasn't her. She wouldn't want them to pick her brother, either, or any of her friends. But why _would_ they? She'd never done anything to them.

Dinner was already on the table when she and her brother arrived. "How was school?" her mother asked.

"G-good," Elle answered. She didn't want to tell them – not when the rumors were probably nothing. Her parents already had more than enough to worry about. She didn't need them to worry about her, too. Not over something that probably wasn't going to happen. Not when there were only three days left before the reaping, and so much to do to prepare.

Especially with the Quell twist. The Capitol had announced the twist, but had left the specifics – how and when to conduct the voting – to the Peacekeepers in each district. So ever since the announcement, they'd been working with her father, arranging a schedule and different polling places across the district. No, he had enough to worry about. Maybe he'd even managed to leave their names off the ballot, or put them near the end, where no one would ever turn. If they were listed in age order, after all, it would take a long time to reach the fourteen-year-olds, and surely no one would bother flipping to her brother's twelve-year-old section. Would they?

"How did your math test go, Griff?" their father asked as they sat down to dinner.

Griff shrugged. "Pretty well. Elle helped me study."

Her father patted her on the back. "That's my girl."

"It was n-nothing, really," Elle insisted. "He j-just n-needed help with a f-f-few things." More than a few things, really. But the last thing she wanted was to make her brother look bad in front of their parents. Math simply wasn't his thing, but their parents wouldn't really understand that. Not after the years she'd spent earning high marks in practically every subject. The idea that Griff might be … well, _average_ … that would certainly come as a blow to them. And she certainly didn't want him to feel like he was letting them down.

Griff, however, was more than happy to give her most of the credit. "Oh, come on. You showed me how to do most of it."

"Sh-showed you how," Elle pointed out. "Y-you're the one who d-d-did it."

"Well, then, it sounds like you _both_ deserve a reward," their mother crooned. "You can both have an extra helping of dessert tonight."

Elle grinned. Their mother had made their favorite honey bread – with honey fresh from the district. Most of the honey went to the Capitol, of course, but their father occasionally managed to procure some for their family. A little favor here, a little dealing there. Nothing that would hurt anyone. Surely nothing that anyone would blame him for. He was just trying to provide for his family, after all – just like any of them. Just like any father would do for his children.

* * *

 **Brindel Tanner, 38  
** **Victor of the 4th Hunger Games**

It was times like these when she was glad she didn't have children. Brindel shook her head as the crowd continued to flock to the district square, like sheep led to the slaughterhouse. Silent. Obedient. Not out of any sense of loyalty, but out of fear of what might happen if they disobeyed. The children were too young to remember, of course – too young to have any memories of the rebellion. But _she_ remembered. And the adults remembered. They passed that knowledge – that warning – along to their children. No matter who was chosen for the Games, they were to obey. To go along with it. Because there was no other choice.

But she hadn't been chosen. She had volunteered. Out of the pain, the loss, the anger, she had made a life for herself – a better one than she'd had before the Games. The Games had made her stronger, but only because she had _already_ been strong.

That was what the Games did, after all. They didn't _change_ people – not really. They took what was already inside people and brought it to the surface. Whatever people were capable in the Games – whatever horrible things they did in the arena – they had been _exactly_ as capable of those things before the Games. And they were still capable of much worse. _Everyone_ was capable of much worse.

And those who weren't … well, they simply didn't last long in the Games. In twenty years of mentoring, she'd seen all sorts of tributes. Younger tributes and older tributes. Strong tributes and smart tributes and sneaky tributes who thought that being underestimated would play in their favor. Tributes who had listened to her and tributes who hadn't. In the end, none of it had made a difference.

None of her tributes had come home.

Maybe this would be their year. But only if their district had made the right choice. She had done her best to pick the names of tributes she thought might have a chance, but had everyone else done the same? Maybe some had voted out of spite or out of fear, or simply out of ignorance. How many people had simply chosen a name – any name – and moved on with the rest of their day? How many people didn't really care _who_ went into the Games?

Brindel shook the thought from her head. She would find out soon enough exactly how the rest of the district had voted. Their escort, Hermia Marcus, was already on the stage, smiling and waving at the crowd, her bright yellow hair bouncing as she strode towards the microphone. "Hello, District Ten, and welcome to the reaping for the First Quarter Quell! As I'm sure you know by now, the other districts have picked _quite_ some interesting tributes. I can't wait to see who you've decided to send."

Brindel bit back a scoff. It wasn't as if anyone in District Ten had sat around and watched the first nine districts' reapings. They had better things to do with their day. In fact, practically _anything_ would be a better use of their time. It wasn't as if watching the other reapings would change anything. It would only serve as a reminder of just how powerless they were to do anything about their own chances.

Because the Career districts had almost certainly chosen tributes who would want to be there. That alone was enough to limit the other districts' chances. Of the last four Victors, three had been Careers. Volunteers. Tributes who had wanted to be in the Games.

Or, at the very least, tributes who found the Games preferable to the sort of life they would have had otherwise. That, she could understand. She knew the sort of desperation that would drive someone to see _any_ sliver of hope for a different life as a viable option. And if that had been the mindset behind the advent of Careers, maybe she would have seen it differently. But Careers – _most_ Careers, at least – weren't seeking an escape from a terrible life. They volunteered in search of glory, excitement, some vague sense of honor.

Brindel leaned back in her chair. Whatever they went into the Games to find, she hoped they found it. She hoped that something good had come out of the horrors they had gone through, as something good had come out of her own Games. Her mother and sister were safe. They were alive. No one would ever harm them again. And her father … well, he was gone for good. And that was worth fighting for, killing for, winning the Games for.

"Mayor Forster?" Hermia asked sweetly. "I believe you have the results of yesterday's voting?"

Their mayor, David Forster, nodded curtly, handing her a pair of plain white envelopes, trying desperately not to look as anxious as he felt. He had two children, after all, who were of reaping age. A boy and a girl. If fate was particularly cruel, they could _both_ be picked. But in order for that to happen…

In order for that to happen, the district would have to have gone mad. Sending a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old to their deaths was bad enough in a regular year. To _choose_ to send them in – that was just unnecessarily cruel. Maybe Mayor Forster wasn't the best mayor in Panem, but it wasn't as if sending his children into the Games would _change_ any of that. And his children were innocent.

Not that anyone really _deserved_ to be in the Games. No one deserved this. Those who chose it – like her – she didn't feel as _sorry_ for, but that still didn't make it right. None of this would ever be right.

But there was no escaping it, either. Hermia smiled a little as she slid open the first envelope. "And the female tribute you voted for, District Ten, is … Ellery Forster! Congratulations!"

Congratulations clearly weren't in order, because a scream rose from the fourteen-year-old section. The crowd parted immediately, but the girl stood frozen still. She was a little over five feet tall, with pale skin, shoulder-length curly blonde hair, and blue eye that were wide and frightened as the Peacekeepers approached her.

One of them tried to coax her forward – maybe trying to go easy on her since she was the mayor's daughter. But when the girl wouldn't budge, one of the Peacekeepers grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards the stage. She was still screaming, tears beginning to spill from her eyes as they pulled her up the stairs and finally let go. Her father was at her side in an instant, begging. "Please. There has to be some mistake. They can't have voted for her. Please."

Hermia shook her head, handing him the piece of paper. "I'm sorry, Mr. Forster. I don't think there are any other Ellery Forsters in the district—"

The mayor threw his arms around his daughter. "Elle, I'm so sorry. I'll make this right. I promise. I'll find some way to—"

Brindel stood up quickly, gripping the mayor's arm. "There's nothing you can do. Sit down."

"But I—"

"But nothing. If you want to help your daughter, sit. Down. Now. They're watching." She nodded towards the crowd, but she hoped he understood. She wasn't talking about the crowd in the district. She was talking about the audience in the Capitol. They would already have pegged the girl as the mayor's spoiled brat. Any promises he might make now would only make that image even worse.

Mercifully, the mayor did as he was told and took a seat, still shaking with rage – or perhaps with fear that his son might be next. Ellery, for her part, had fallen silent, sobbing quietly into her sleeves as she tried desperately to hide her face from the crowd. Brindel took her seat again. At least that was better than screaming. She just hoped the boy was up to par. If the district had actually been stupid enough to choose _both_ of the mayor's kids…

Hermia shook her head as she opened the second envelope – maybe hoping for the same thing. Or maybe just hoping for someone – _anyone_ – who seemed more capable. Did she even know that the mayor had a second child? Maybe. Maybe not. Surely everyone in the Capitol would know by now. The announcers would be making a big fuss of it, wondering if the second envelope contained his son's name.

Hermia slid the slip of paper out and seemed to relax a little. "Barnabas Ford!"

The eighteen-year-old section began to stir a little, and Brindel's eyes swept the section, watching to see who might emerge. But suddenly a boy burst out of the seventeen-year-old section, shouting. "Wait! Wait, please! There has to be a mistake! He's not the one you meant. He can't be! They meant to pick me. Please."

Sure enough, the boy _looked_ like a reasonable choice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and exactly the sort of handsome young man who might appeal to the Capitol sponsors. But the fact that he was shouting about a mistake – while running _towards_ the stage – meant that he probably _wasn't_ the one who had been chosen.

Hermia had caught on, as well. "Is your name Barnabas Ford, young man?"

The boy stood still for a moment before opening his mouth – but a moment was all it took, because another voice rose from the eighteen-year-old section. "No! No, he's not! I am!"

"But _I'm_ the one they meant to pick," the first boy insisted, turning towards the eighteen-year-old section, where the crowd had parted to make way for a second boy. He was short – not only shorter than the first boy, but shorter than Ellery, as well. He couldn't have been more than four feet tall, with short, stunted arms and legs and a large forehead. He had a bit of a tan, medium brown hair, and hazel eyes.

He wasn't moving very quickly, but he _was_ moving. Towards the stage, towards the boy who must have been his brother. The taller boy shook his head, silently pleading for him to stop. To go back. Any other year, he might have volunteered – and the other boy might very well have allowed it. But they all knew the rules that had come with the quell twist. No volunteers. Even if it was what everyone wanted. Even if it was what everyone had _meant._

Slowly – very slowly – the boy climbed the stairs to the stage. "I'm Barnabas. That's my brother, Ananias."

Hermia nodded helplessly. "Then I'm afraid that you're—"

"The one you're stuck with?" the boy finished. It was obvious – _painfully_ obvious – that the other boy would have been a better choice. But the decision had been made. Barnabas turned to his brother. "Go."

As Ananias faded helplessly back into the crowd, Barnabas turned to Ellery, who was still weeping quietly beside Hermia. She barely seemed to have noticed him, but he wrapped an arm gently around her, and she looked down in surprise. "I-I-I… I'm sorry, I-I—"

Barnabas nodded. "Yeah, that's just about right. I'm sorry, too. For both of us."

 _Me, too._ Brindel held her tongue as the two of them shook hands – Ellery towering over Barnabas by at least a foot. Maybe the district _had_ meant to pick his brother – to send at least one tribute who had a chance. Now, she was stuck with a fourteen-year-old crybaby and a shrimp who was wasting his time trying to comfort her. _Great._

As the pair of them were led away, Mayor Forster stood up again. "You have to bring my daughter home. Please. Please, I can't lose her."

Brindel watched as her new tributes disappeared into the distance. What was she supposed to say? She couldn't promise to bring the girl home. Not in a regular year, and certainly not this year. Only one Victor in Hunger Games history had been as young as she was, and _that_ hadn't been a Quarter Quell. She would probably be the youngest tribute in the arena.

 _But not the smallest._

Great. That was even better. The youngest and smallest tributes in the Quell, and they were both hers. That was perfect.

But she couldn't tell him that, either. She couldn't tell him that there was no hope, no chance that his daughter would be coming home. That wouldn't help anyone. If he thought there was no chance at all, he might go and do something stupid. Something that would bring the Capitol's wrath down on the rest of the district, whether they had anything to do with the mayor or not.

Brindel clenched her fists. They did. Whether they liked it or not, they'd had a part in whatever stupid choice he made about how to respond to this. They'd sent his daughter into the Games, to what was almost certainly her death. Whatever consequences came to the district as a result of his actions, they'd earned them. She didn't owe them anything.

But still…

Brindel took a deep breath. "I'll try. I promise I'll try. But _you_ have to help her, too. You can't do anything that might harm her chances. Don't do anything stupid. _Please._ "

Mayor Forster nodded. "I promise. I would never do anything to hurt her."

Brindel nodded as she turned to go. _That_ she believed. Whatever his faults as a mayor, he did seem to genuinely love his daughter. But that still wouldn't stop him from doing something stupid when she died.

 _If_ she died. It was always an _if_. Even when the tributes seemed hopeless, there was still a chance. Stranger things had happened. Less promising tributes had won. Maybe there wasn't much of a chance, but as long as they were still alive, there was at least a sliver of hope. She just had to keep telling herself that, as long as she could. As long as they were still alive.

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18**

"You just _had_ to tell them, didn't you," Ford grumbled. "They would have let me go, if you hadn't said anything. They have no idea which of us is which. Hell, they probably wouldn't have even known I _had_ a brother if you hadn't said anything. Even some of my friends don't know my first name."

That was probably true. If they had played it right, it might have worked. But _neither_ of them had been thinking clearly enough for that to happen. If he had kept quiet, and if Ford had simply walked to the stage rather than running up and insisting that it was a mistake, it might have worked. But now…

Now the district was stuck with him. Him and the mayor's daughter. "It wouldn't have worked," Barnabas shrugged, hoping he didn't sound as frightened as he really was. "They would have found out eventually, and who knows what sort of trouble we might have gotten in. They may have—"

"Killed us?" Ford offered. "What do you _think_ is going to happen? This is the Hunger Games!"

"And I'm probably going to die." There was no easy way to say it – even with their parents standing behind Ford, watching with tears in their eyes. There was no sugar-coating it; he was probably going to die. But _only_ he was going to die. If Ford had taken his place, and the Capitol had discovered that sort of deception – during a Quarter Quell, no less – the consequences would have been much more severe. "It's not your fault." Barnabas shook his head as they led his family away. "It's _not_ your fault."

And it wasn't. It wasn't his brother's fault. It wasn't even the district's fault, really. How were they supposed to know that one of the Ford brothers was tall, strong, capable, and the other … well, wasn't? They couldn't have known any better. He would never have expected them to. But what was he supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Ellery "Elle" Forster, 14**

What was she supposed to do now? Elle held her mother close, still sobbing as her parents and Griff wrapped her tightly in a hug. She had heard the rumors, the whispers, but she had never imagined that the district might actually pick her. She would never have guessed that they could actually be that cruel. Even now, there was some corner of her mind that didn't quite believe it. That hoped it would all turn out to be some sort of prank, or maybe a dream. That she would wake up in the morning, and it would all be a nightmare.

But it wasn't. This was real. She was going to be in the Hunger Games. Elle wiped away her tears as her father continued to talk. She could barely hear what he was saying. Everything was a blur of tears and sobbing, but she thought she caught something about her mentor. Brindel. Had he talked to her? What had he told her? That he expected her to bring his daughter home alive? What had he threatened to do if she didn't?

Elle swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that just wouldn't seem to stop. She didn't want him to hurt anyone – not even if she died in the Games. As much as none of them wanted to admit it, there was really nothing that Brindel could do about whether she was going to come home or not. It wasn't up to the mentors, the audience, the sponsors. Not really. They could tip the scales a little one way or the other, but they couldn't make a Victor out of someone who just wasn't capable.

Elle clenched her fists tightly. That wasn't her. She could do this. There had been young Victors in the past. Only one fourteen-year-old, but a couple fifteen-year-olds. There wasn't _that_ much of a difference. And this was a Quarter Quell. Maybe the child of a mayor would be appealing to the sponsors. Maybe there was still a chance. And as long as there was still a chance, she would do her best to hold onto it.


	14. District Eleven: Make a Change

**District Eleven Reaping  
** **Make a Change**

* * *

 _Four weeks before the reaping_

 **Apple Oxon, 18**

She was doing her best not to watch. Apple cringed as the boy screamed again, the whip stinging his back, digging deep into his flesh. He was a few years younger than her, probably new to the job. Maybe he'd thought he could get away with stealing a little food. Maybe he'd thought the Peacekeepers would be reasonable. Maybe he was used to getting away with that sort of thing at school.

But this wasn't school. This wasn't a classroom packed full of students, crammed in forty or fifty to a room that didn't have enough chairs. This wasn't the school lunchroom, where no one really cared enough to watch what they were doing, as long as they didn't cause too much trouble. The fields were different. The Peacekeepers were always on guard, keeping an eye out for anyone who stepped out of line.

So she did her best not to. And, most of the time, she succeeded. She'd been whipped only once – for talking too much on her first day of work. She hadn't made the same mistake since. And, even then, it had been a few quick strokes, not the severe lashing the boy was getting now. She wanted to do something – _anything_ – to stop the screaming, but…

But no one ever did. No one dared. It was one thing to step a little out of line. To whisper to her friends or to dally a little bit during her shift. It was quite another to directly challenge a Peacekeeper. She wasn't sure what they would do if someone tried to step in and stop them from doing their job, but it certainly wouldn't be good.

And she wasn't about to find out. Not now. Not for the sake of a boy she didn't even know. Besides, it wasn't as if challenging the Peacekeepers would stop them from punishing him. If anything, it would only make it worse.

Yes. That was it. By _not_ doing anything, she was being kind. If she took his side, the Peacekeepers would only make an example out of both of them. It would be over sooner if she didn't do anything.

She just wished it was over _now_.

Apple gripped her hoe tighter, swinging again as the screaming continued behind her. She didn't look. It was always better not to look. There would be blood, yes, but that wouldn't be the worst of it. The worst part would be the look on his face – the same look she'd seen before. Terror. Agony. Desperation. She could picture that look well enough without turning around.

Apple's hoe struck the ground, and she clenched her teeth as the boy screamed again. She wished she could take a swing at the Peacekeeper, instead. One good swing from her hoe, and he would never hurt anyone again. But then…

Then she would be dead. If not immediately, then soon after. The penalty for killing a Peacekeeper was death. Sometimes immediately, sometimes at a public execution later. Not that many Peacekeepers had been killed in District Eleven, but she'd heard stories. Immediately after the war, the districts had been more restless. Smaller rebel factions had cropped up here and there, as if the rebels simply couldn't accept that the war was over.

But that was twenty-five years ago. Now they knew better. The war _was_ over. They had lost. The districts had lost. They had continued to lose for the next twenty-five years. And that wasn't going to change any time soon.

"Please," the boy behind her begged, his voice squeaking a little. "Please. Please, just stop. I'll be good. I promise."

A few more lashes, and the whip finally stopped. Apple could hear the boy sobbing behind her, but she didn't dare turn around. It wasn't safe to show any sort of sympathy. Not yet. Later, after the Peacekeepers were gone. Later, when no one could mistake her compassion for encouragement of what he'd done.

Apple swung her hoe again. The boy would learn. He would learn to keep his hands off the food that was meant for the Capitol, no matter how hungry and desperate he was. He would learn to stay in line, just like the rest of them. He would learn, or he would die. That was how it worked. And there was nothing anyone could do to change that.

* * *

 _Three weeks before the reaping._

 **Ethan Vetch, 18**

"Damn it," Ellen muttered under her breath, pushing her glasses up a little farther on her nose. They weren't the right strength, but she rarely complained; they all knew was lucky to have any glasses at all. Ethan probably needed glasses, too, but only when he was reading. And there wasn't really much call for that in the fields. Not after he had dropped out of school when he was … well, actually, only a little older than Ellen was now. He had been sixteen when he had made the decision to go to work in the fields, instead.

His parents had wanted him to try to finish out the year, at least, but even they had relented when he'd pointed out that they needed the money, and it had been a better option than asking Ellen, who had been thirteen at the time, to take out more tesserae. Besides, he had pointed out, he was going to end up working in the fields, anyway. His grades certainly weren't good enough to earn him a different job. So why not get a jump on things and go to work a year early?

That had been his argument, at least. The simple truth was, he actually _preferred_ working in the fields to sitting behind a desk all day. At least this way, he could pretend he was doing something useful. He was helping plant and gather food. He was feeding people, in a way.

Capitolites, mostly. But at least some of the food went to the districts. Maybe not much, compared to the Capitol's portion, but at least it felt like he was accomplishing _something._ Like he was doing something at least a tiny bit useful with his life.

He didn't say things like that around Ellen, though. She still had her heart set on finishing school and getting a better job than … well, anyone else in the family. Both of their parents were fieldhands, as were their uncles, aunts, and any cousins old enough to be working instead of going to school. Maybe it wasn't much of a life. Maybe it wasn't the most exciting option. But it was better than being dead.

Ethan ruffled his sister's hair as she strained to see her book in the dimming light. They couldn't afford any more light. Not tonight. Their candles were already running low. "Another test tomorrow?" Ethan asked quietly.

Ellen nodded. "If I don't pass…"

"You'll pass." He wasn't sure of that, of course. He wished he could help her the way he usually helped in the fields. He was something of a jack-of-all-trades there. A handyman. He was known for being able to fix things. But this … pencils and books and tests. He had never been very good at that. He was good with his hands. And if he could only have one, he preferred it that way. But Ellen…

She had always been more studious. She wanted more. She wanted something _better_. None of them had the heart to tell her that she probably wasn't going to make the cut. That the better jobs – the better _grades_ , even – went to the students who had more time to spend on their studies. The ones who didn't have part-time jobs in the fields after school. The ones who weren't struggling to balance their homework and helping to provide for their family.

Not that there were many kids in District Nine who didn't have to work. But there also weren't many good jobs to go around. Odds were, she would end up in the fields, just like the rest of them.

And maybe that wasn't so bad for someone like him. Someone who had never expected anything different. Someone who, on better days, even _enjoyed_ his job. But Ellen had always wanted more. She would never be satisfied with a life in the fields.

But at least it was a _life_. That was more than some could say. Between their jobs and the tesserae he, Ellen, and Edwin took, they had enough to get by. Elric was only ten years old, but once he was eligible for the reaping, as well, his tesserae would be enough to make up for the tesserae they would lose once Ethan was no longer eligible.

Ethan shook his head. It wasn't fair – the fact that risking their lives by putting their names in more times for the Games meant they got more food. It wasn't fair that his sister would probably be joining him in the fields full-time sooner than she would want to. None of it was fair. But it was the way things were. And there was nothing he could do to change that.

* * *

 _Reaping Day_

 **Nolan Tamarind, 41  
** **Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games**

There was nothing he could do to change any of this. Nolan sighed as he took his place onstage, waiting for Isaac to join him. The square was already filling up with teenagers. Children, really. He had been eighteen during his Games, and even that had seemed young. So many of these children were younger. So many of them were more frightened.

He had been frightened of the Games, of course. Everyone in their right mind was at least a little afraid of the Games. But he had lived through the rebellion, and that, in its own way, had been even worse than the Games. As terrible as they were, the Games only killed twenty-three children per year. The rebellion had killed more than that. Many, many more. Those it hadn't killed directly had been left without mothers or fathers, without homes and jobs, without any way to provide for themselves or whatever family they had left. Children had starved to death on the streets because the community homes had been filled to bursting. Those who did find a place in the orphanages were often neglected and half-starved, anyway. Compared to that…

Compared to that, maybe things weren't so bad now. Sure, they weren't _good_. Maybe things would never be good in District Eleven. But it wasn't as if they had been good before the Games, either. At least now, teenagers who had no other means to provide for themselves could take tesserae and risk going into the Games in order to get by from day to day. Maybe the tesserae allotment wasn't much, but it was enough to ensure that they didn't starve.

Nolan shook his head. He was tired of playing these arguments over and over in his head. Tired of trying to find something good about their current situation. Something good about the Games. There was nothing good about the Games themselves – just some things that were a bit less bad than the alternative.

Sort of like the voting this year. No, it wasn't good, but it was better than two children being chosen at random. At least this way, the district could select someone who might actually have a chance at coming home. Someone like him. Someone like Isaac. Someone who could think on their feet, someone who could make the hard decisions that the Games required. Someone who had it in them to fight, and, when it came down to it, to kill.

He would never have imagined, of course, that _he_ had what it took. Not until his name was called at the reaping. His family had stayed out of the fighting during the rebellion, and unlike some of his peers, he had never fancied himself much of a fighter. He had been hoping for the rebels to succeed, of course – practically everyone had been hoping for that. But he'd never particularly wanted to _join_ them himself.

But, when push had come to shove, he had been willing to fight. And he had been willing to kill. Not just one or two people, either. He had killed _four_ of the other tributes. Not a particularly impressive number, maybe – not compared to Elva the year before, who had killed seven, or Angelo the year after, who had killed eight. But he had taken four lives. Four tributes were dead because _he_ had been willing to kill them in order to come home.

And the worst part was, his life in District Eleven was pretty good. He was certainly better off now than he would have been without the Games. Even with the guilt, even with the memories, he still wouldn't trade it for a life of meaningless labor in the fields. As it was, his family would never have to worry about going hungry. His son Durian would never have to take tesserae. That wouldn't change his chances this year, of course, but he was only fifteen…

Nolan nodded silently to Isaac as the boy joined him onstage. He had a younger brother who was still technically eligible for the reaping. But Asher was only thirteen. He had even less of a chance of being chosen than Durian did. That was small comfort, of course, until the reaping was over, and Isaac's gaze was fixed on the thirteen-year-old section.

Nolan's gaze found his own son, standing with his friends near the edge of the fifteen-year-old section. Surely he wouldn't be picked. Surely the district had more sense. They would want to pick someone who might actually _win_. Someone who might bring home a victory for District Eleven – and, consequently, a year of more food and supplies from the Capitol. That was what they wanted. What they _all_ wanted.

Maybe it was even what their new escort wanted. The boy – for he was, in fact, little older than Isaac – took the stage with a smile. "Hello there, District Eleven! I'm your new escort, Felix Leonardo, and I'm just tickled pink to be here."

Right. No one was glad to be in District Eleven. Not that he blamed them for that. Most of the _citizens_ in District Eleven weren't glad to be there, either. Why should the escorts be? None of District Eleven's escorts had lasted more than a year, and for good reason. District Eleven was a stepping stone. A district that the Capitol used to break in new escorts, give them a little experience before they moved on to something better. Some _where_ better. No one wanted to stay in District Eleven.

That wasn't particularly unique, of course. District Twelve had been in a similar position for years. And until recently, so had District Ten.

But there was no point in telling Felix that. No point in insisting that by the end of the Games, he would be ready to be done with District Eleven. Nolan had gone through the same routine with escort after escort. They all started out insisting that this was exactly where they wanted to be, but, after the Games, none of them had felt the same way. Why should this year be any different?

Felix, for his part, was still grinning as Mayor Pomelo handed him a pair of plain white envelopes. The mayor was doing her best not to look nervous, but Nolan knew she must be as anxious as he was. She had two daughters of her own, after all – twins who were … what? Seventeen this year? He was pretty sure that was right. Either sixteen or seventeen now. Only a few years older than Durian…

Felix gleefully tore open the first envelope, then blushed a little. "Whoops, I'm sorry. The envelopes look so much alike. I guess it's boys first this year, then. Ethan Vetch, come on up to the stage."

Nolan glanced over at Isaac, who couldn't help a small smile. Maybe it was a small thing, but he was glad Felix had revealed the boy first. Now he didn't have to worry – at least not this year. Durian was safe. Asher was safe.

And, to his relief, it was the eighteen-year-old section that began to stir, parting around a tall, muscular boy with dark skin, close-cropped black hair, and dark brown eyes. He took a step backwards, but he didn't run. He simply turned towards one of the girls in his section and wrapped her in a hug before heading for the stage, his fists clenched tightly as he made his way up the steps. No tears. No fighting. No fuss.

 _Good._ That never helped anyone. The Capitol loved drama, of course, but tears were the wrong _kind_ of drama. They didn't want to see weaklings; they wanted to see contenders. And this boy certainly seemed like one. Maybe there were no _good_ choices for who to send in the Games, but he didn't seem like such a bad option.

Felix seemed to agree, and clapped Ethan on the back before opening the second envelope. "Well, then, ladies … second. Come on up, Apple Oxon!"

Nolan heard a grunt of disgust as the eighteen-year-old section parted again. "Great. Just great." The crowd quickly made way for the girl, who was just as muscular and almost as tall as the boy. She had dark skin, curly black hair, and dark brown eyes that were glaring out at the crowd. "Thanks for nothing," she muttered, but started for the stage before the Peacekeepers had a chance to move in. She was still grumbling as she plodded up the steps, but she knew better than to complain too loudly, or to try to run or fight.

Ethan hesitated, but then held out his hand. Apple was scowling as she shook it, but she said nothing. One by one, the cameras clicked off and the rest of the district headed back home, relieved that their names hadn't been called. Felix gave each of the tributes a pat on the back before herding them towards the Justice Building.

Once they were gone, Nolan turned to Isaac. "Got a preference? I chose first last time."

Isaac nodded. "I'll take the girl."

"Okay by me," Nolan agreed. Either one would have been a good option. They were both older and stronger than the tributes that District Eleven had been sending for the past few years. Maybe the rest of the district had realized that they should choose someone who stood a decent chance of winning. Maybe they were tired of losing. Maybe – just maybe – this was the year that they could do something to change that.

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18**

Maybe this would end up being a good thing. Apple clenched her fists tightly as she paced the small Justice Building room. Her family had come and gone, as had her friends. All of them had been trying to appear confident. Certain that she would be the one coming home. That the district wouldn't have voted for her if they didn't think she had a chance of winning.

And maybe they were right. But even if she had a chance, it was still only that: a chance. There were no guarantees. She would try her best to come home, of course, but that didn't change the fact that there were twenty-three other tributes in the arena trying to do the same thing. All of them wanted to come home. But only one of them would get to. Did her district really think it would be her?

But if it _was_ her…

If it _was_ her, if she managed to win the Games and come home alive, then she would never have to work in the fields again. She would never have to work again _at all._ Neither would her parents, or even her little brother Milo. What would they _do_ with the rest of their lives? What _did_ the Victors do when they weren't busy mentoring tributes? Just sit around and be grateful that they didn't have to work?

Actually, that didn't sound half bad.

Apple shook her head. She was getting ahead of herself. First, she had to win, and that was far from certain. Physically, she was probably as strong as anyone else in the arena – besides the Careers, of course. She'd been working in the fields and hauling heavy equipment almost as long as she could remember. But strength wasn't everything. She had to be willing to fight, to kill, to do _anything_ if she wanted to come home. Was she really ready for that?

* * *

 **Ethan Vetch, 18**

He wasn't ready for this. Ethan held his family close, trying not to let the tears slip from his eyes. _Just a little longer._ He only had to hold on a little longer. They had all come at once – his parents, his younger siblings, and Penny. She was practically part of the family now. She was his fiance in all but name. They'd been putting off making it official until…

Until after the reaping. Until they were both safe. This was their last year. They were supposed to be home now, thankful that they hadn't been chosen, just like every other year. After the quell twist had been announced, he hadn't even been particularly nervous. He'd figured the district would pick someone else. Someone they wouldn't be sorry to get rid of. Maybe even someone who _deserved_ it.

But they hadn't. They had picked _him_. What had he ever done to them? Ethan held Penny a little tighter. At least they hadn't chosen her. She would never have stood a chance in the Games.

Was that why they'd picked him – because they thought he would have a chance? Maybe. But that didn't make it any better. That didn't make it any easier to hold it together for his family's sake. That didn't help him pretend to be certain that he would be the one coming home. "Please come back," Penny whispered.

"Of course I will." But even as he said it, he could hear how shaky his voice sounded. How uncertain the words were. If it were up to him, of course, he would be coming back. But it _wasn't_ just up to him. There would be twenty-three other teenagers in the arena trying to do the same thing. Trying to make it home. His district partner, Apple – she would be trying to make it home, too. Her family was probably in the next room, trying to tell her the same thing – that she'd been chosen because she had a chance.

And maybe she did. Maybe _he_ did. Maybe most people in District Eleven didn't care which of them came home, as long as one of them did. But if he wanted to make it back to his family, then he couldn't afford to worry about what happened to Apple. Because if he wanted to come home, then she would have to die.


	15. District Twelve: Make a Choice

**District Twelve Reaping  
** **Make a Choice**

* * *

 _Two months before the reaping_

 **Sienna Ledger, 18**

No one had told her it would be this hard. Sienna swung her pickax a little harder as another chunk of coal fell near her feet. She hadn't been expecting it to be _easy_ , certainly. Her father was always tired when he came home from the mines, and if the job could tire him, then it could tire anyone. But she hadn't expected it to be quite this hard on her first day. She had thought that maybe they would go easy on her, let her work her way up to harder and harder shifts.

She should have known better. Nothing in District Twelve was ever easy, or fair, or got gradually harder. Things were rough, and they would always be rough. She shouldn't have expected anything different out of her new job.

Her new job. Sienna gripped her pickax tighter despite the blisters that were already forming on her hands. It had only been a matter of time. Once teenagers stopped going to school, they were expected to get a job. They were expected to pull their own weight. Her father had always done his best to provide for the two of them, with Sienna picking up odd jobs here and there. But now that she was old enough to work in the mines…

Now that she was old enough, there was a good chance she would be doing this for the rest of her life. It wasn't as if there were many opportunities for a coal miner's daughter to work her way out of her situation. Maybe if things had gone differently during the rebellion. Maybe if the rebels had succeeded.

But they hadn't. And she knew better than to say anything of the sort out loud. At home, when it was just her and her father, she could speak her mind – and so could he. They could share whispered stories of the brave rebels who had fought for the freedom of Panem. But only in whispers. And only to each other. Because as wonderful as the stories were, they never ended well.

They ended with the Capitol's victory. The Capitol always won. And they would continue to win, as long as no one in the districts was brave enough to resist them.

No. No, that wasn't quite right. There were people who were brave enough. Every now and then, they would hear whispers of one rebel faction or another whose leaders had been captured and executed. So the rebels were still alive. They were still at work. But once they made a move, they were caught. They were killed. Anyone brave enough to stand up to the Capitol … they didn't last long.

And certainly no one in District Twelve would be that foolhardy. She loved a good story as much as anyone else, but she wasn't in a hurry to die. Maybe life in District Twelve wasn't particularly exciting, but it was a _life_. And she wasn't about to see it cut short because of a careless word to a Peacekeeper or a fleeting fancy of rebellion. She knew better.

She was _learning_ better. Learning to hold her tongue. Learning to keep those feelings in check – the desires, the longing for something more. Something better than a life of hard labor in the mines. There had to be something better, but even _wishing_ for something more was dangerous. The Capitol expected the people in the districts to be content with their lives – or if not content, then at least compliant. They couldn't risk people complaining about the way things were – or, worse, dreaming of something better.

Sienna took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. She managed to hold back the coughing, but not for long. Soon, Garth was at her side, pounding on her back. "It's okay," he assured her. "You'll get used to it."

Tears stung Sienna's eyes. She didn't want to get used to it. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life like this. But what other choice did she have?

* * *

 _Two days before the reaping._

 **Derek Overholt, 17**

He was glad he wouldn't have to choose. Derek glanced around the classroom as he continued wadding up a small piece of paper. The tension in the room was getting to be too much. Mrs. March was rambling about some chemical process that had some sort of effect on coal, but even her heart wasn't in it. Maybe she was wondering the same thing everyone else was – whether their class would be missing a student or two after the reaping.

It wouldn't be unheard of. District Twelve was the smallest district, with fewer than a thousand children eligible for the reaping. He'd never been particularly close to any of the tributes who had been chosen, but the girl the year before had been a grade below him. The boy the year that before had been in the grade above. This year, they would probably choose someone older. Someone in his grade, or the grade above. In a few days, any one of the seats around him could be empty.

But there was no point in dwelling on that now. It wasn't going to change anything. There was nothing any of them could do to change the outcome of the reaping; they weren't even allowed to vote. For that, at least, he was grateful. How could he select one of his classmates that he wanted to die?

Because that was what the Games were – at least in District Twelve. They were a death sentence. In twenty-four years, none of their tributes had made it home. None. All of the other districts had at least one Victor, but District Twelve … every single one of their tributes had died.

 _Stop it._ Derek flicked the little paper ball he had made at the girl in front of him. Chloe. The paper landed perfectly in her hair. Another tiny wad, and then another. _Come on_. She had to notice eventually.

Finally, Chloe turned and glared at him for a moment before turning her attention back to Mrs. March. Derek tore off another little piece of paper and crumpled it. Usually, she would say something. Or at least whisper something. But everyone was so quiet. Maybe they were all worried that if they said something, that might affect their chances.

Which was silly, of course. It wasn't as if the other students were voting. Maybe he occasionally annoyed Chloe, but it wasn't as if he would get voted into the Games for being occasionally _annoying_. No one would want to send him into the Games for that. Of course, no one really _wanted_ to send anyone into the Games. He certainly didn't.

But he didn't have to. He didn't have to choose. He didn't have to worry about who he hated enough to send into the Games. Or who he thought would have the best chance.

So why couldn't he stop _thinking_ about it?

Derek nearly jumped as the bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Finally. Just sitting in a desk all day gave his mind too much time to wander. It wasn't usually a problem, but before the reaping, everyone was a bit preoccupied. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was terrified of the Games. Everyone was.

Derek shook his head as he headed for home, quickly catching up to his friend Gideon, who clapped him on the back as they headed back towards the Seam. Even the streets were quiet. Streets that were usually bustling by now with children going home from school. Even the younger children – those too young for the reaping and those who almost certainly wouldn't be chosen by their own district – were silent, as if already in mourning for the ones who would die this year.

That wasn't certain, of course. Maybe this would finally be the year that one of their tributes came home a Victor. It had to happen eventually, after all. Every other district already had a Victor. It was only a matter of time before District Twelve got one of its own.

"Just a few more days," Derek pointed out as he and Gideon headed away from the square. "Then this whole thing will be over."

"Except for two people," Gideon added quietly. For most of them, their worries would end at the reaping. But two of them…

Derek clapped Gideon on the back. "Good luck."

Gideon nodded. "You, too."

* * *

 _Reaping Day_

 **Simeon Vesper, 62  
** **Capitol Mentor**

District Twelve needed all the luck it could get. Simeon glanced around the square as the citizens began to arrive. He and Valerie, District Twelve's escort, had arrived early, but no one else seemed in any particular hurry. Not that he could really blame them for that. Even this year, with the opportunity to choose their own tributes, there was a sense of inevitability in the air that was hard to ignore. For the past twenty-four years, all of District Twelve's tributes had died. They'd gotten used to it, and that sort of certainty was hard to shake. Maybe they figured that if they resigned themselves to the fact that their tributes were going to die, it would hurt less when they did. When they failed to come home, just like the last forty-eight prospects.

But it never hurt any less. Even after twenty-four years of mentoring, it had never gotten easier. He could still remember every name, every face, of the tributes from every Games. He knew how each and every one of them had died, from the girl in the 18th Games who had stepped off her podium a little too early to the boy during the Second Games who had come so close – _so_ close – to coming home.

But close hadn't been good enough. Close was never good enough. In the end, the tributes who placed second were just as dead as the tributes who placed twenty-fourth. Only winning the Games mattered, and that was something that District Twelve simply hadn't managed to do.

Not yet. District Twelve hadn't won the Games _yet_. But it was only a matter of time. It had taken some of the other districts a while to earn themselves a Victor. District Seven hadn't won until the 17th Games, District Eight until the 20th. It hadn't been that long since then. There was still time for District Twelve to surprise everyone.

Simeon smiled a little as he and Valerie joined Mayor Stoke onstage. It was only her second year, but escorting for District Twelve was clearly already starting to weigh on her. It was one thing to be assigned to a district where the Games were viewed as an honor. Districts One, Two, Four – those were the positions that escorts dreamed of. Even some of the other districts – the ones with more than one Victor to their name – were still more prestigious than Twelve. Districts Three, Five, Nine, and even Eleven … at least they'd managed to win the Games twice. Twice in twenty-four years – that wasn't bad.

But Districts Six, Seven, Eight, Ten – they only had a single Victor to show for twenty-four years of the Games. District Six hadn't won since the First Games, District Ten since the Fourth Games. He wasn't sure which was worse – not having won at all or knowing that winning was possible but had been out of reach for so many years.

Simeon shook his head as the square began to fill. It didn't matter which was worse. This was his job, and, come what may, he was going to do it as long as he could. He owed them that much, at least.

It was a strange feeling, really – the idea that he owed these people anything. They were the ones who had started the war, after all. They were the ones who had made the Games necessary. And losing two children a year was nothing compared to what they would go through if they tried to rebel again. The Games were necessary in order to keep the peace, and he had _volunteered_ to be a mentor during the First Games. He didn't owe them anything.

Not really. Not logically. But he couldn't deny that, after so many years, it _felt_ like he owed them a victory. Like it would be a failure to stop mentoring after so many years without bringing home a Victor. But the truth was, he was getting too old for this. He was tired of losing. He was tired of coming back on the train to District Twelve with two bodies rather than a living, breathing Victor.

Simeon took a deep breath – or, at least, as deep as he dared with all the coal dust in the air. He was stuck. He couldn't keep doing this forever. And he couldn't stop. All he could do – all any of them could really do – was hope that this would finally be their year, and hope that they'd had the good sense to pick tributes who had a chance.

The square was nearly full by the time Valerie started making her way to the microphone. Mayor Stoke handed her a pair of plain black envelopes. Black for coal, maybe. Or maybe black for the feeling of dread that filled the square as she greeted the crowd. "It's so wonderful to be back in District Twelve again. It really feels like coming home!"

Lies. On the train only a few hours before, Valerie had been complaining about the air, about the smell, about the Capitol's decision to leave her in District Twelve for another year instead of moving her to a better district. But she was a good actor. Maybe you didn't get to be an escort without being a pretty good actor.

It wasn't exactly a requirement for a mentor.

Not that they'd exactly had a list of requirements for a mentor. After the war, there hadn't been many people who had been willing to sign up to _help_ the districts' tributes. Escorts, at least, got to be in charge of some of the costumes and cameras and the showier aspects of the Games, along with the tributes' stylists and prep teams, which had emerged around the Fifteenth Games. But mentoring? That was a thankless job, both in the Capitol and back in the districts. He was the only one left, the only one who hadn't brought home a Victor. His lack of success was his only claim to fame – a claim no one wanted. No one remembered the years he had come close. All they knew was that he had failed. He had failed twenty-four times. He had failed forty-eight tributes.

And this year, he would fail at least one more. But maybe not both of them. Maybe…

"Well, well, let's see who we have this year, then." Valerie put on a smile as she opened the first envelope. "For your female tribute, District Twelve, you have chosen … Sienna Ledger!"

Mercifully, it was the eighteen-year-old section that began to stir, parting around a short, stocky girl with olive skin, short dark brown hair, and deep brown eyes. Instead of heading for the stage, however, the girl immediately took off running in the opposite direction. The crowd parted easily for her. Maybe even hoping that she would get away.

Simeon shook his head. She wouldn't. No one ever did. Sure enough, when she reached the edge of the crowd, the Peacekeepers were there waiting for her. One of them struck her with his baton, bringing her to her knees. Two more lifted her by the arms and dragged her towards the stage, dumping her at Valerie's feet.

The girl fought her way to her feet, still gasping for breath. Maybe ready to run again. "Don't," Simeon whispered, and, to his surprise, the girl turned, her eyes wide and frightened as they found his. "Don't run," he repeated. "It won't help."

And it wouldn't. It never did. The girl nodded a little, tears coming to her eyes as she turned away from him. Her gaze fell to her feet as Valerie opened the second envelope, maybe hoping that if she moved quickly enough – and if the boy was promising – the audience might forget what had just happened. "Derek Overholt!" Valerie called. "Derek Overholt, come join us."

 _Come join us._ As if it was an invitation. An opportunity. And maybe she was hoping to make that sort of impression on the audience. Maybe she was begging to be moved to a district where the Games _were_ considered an opportunity rather than a death sentence.

The boy who emerged from the seventeen-year-old section certainly didn't seem to share her enthusiasm. He was shaking as he took a hesitant step towards the stage. Then another. He was tall and lean, with fair skin, dark brown hair, and wide brown eyes. About halfway to the stage, he stopped, and, for a moment, Simeon thought the Peacekeepers might have to step in again. But even as they started moving towards him, he started walking again. Slowly, but moving under his own power.

That was something, at least. He made it up the stairs on his own, shaking like a leaf and avoiding the crowd's gaze. Slowly, he held out his hand to Sienna, who shook it almost as hesitantly. Neither of them wanted to be here. But there wasn't a thing that either of them could do about it. There was nothing _anyone_ could do about it. The district had already made its choice. All that remained to be seen was whether the voters had made the _right_ choice.

* * *

 **Sienna Ledger, 18**

They'd made the wrong choice; she was sure of it. Sienna held her father close as the pair of them sat in the tiny Justice Building room, neither of them wanting to let go, even for a moment. Because every moment they had now could be their last together. It was only a matter of time before the Peacekeepers came back. Before they came to take her father away, and take her to the train. Away from District Twelve. Away from everything she'd ever known, everything that made life worth living.

And away from everyone who had chosen her for the Games.

Sienna bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over. She didn't want to think about that. About how many people must have voted for her in order for her to be chosen. In order for her name to win out over all the other girls who could have been picked. Maybe there weren't as many as in other districts, but did that make it better or worse? There weren't as many teenagers in District Twelve, which meant some of the people who had voted for her actually _knew_ her. They hadn't simply picked a name at random. They _couldn't_ have. So either they thought she could win, or…

Or they thought they could stand to lose her. They were going to lose someone, after all, no matter how the Games went. Either she or Derek – or _both_ of them – wouldn't be coming back. Maybe they were simply the candidates that District Twelve thought they could do without. The ones no one would miss.

Sienna held her father tighter as the knock came on the door. He would miss her. But whether he would miss her for a few weeks or forever … that was up to her now. She was going into the Games; she didn't have any choice in that matter. But the choices she made now would determine whether or not she came out again.

* * *

 **Derek Overholt, 17**

They'd made the wrong choice; that much was obvious. Derek leaned back against the door of the Justice Building room, hoping it would be enough to keep everyone out. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want to say goodbye. He wouldn't be able to hold it together long enough, and if he started crying, then his family would start crying. That wasn't how he wanted to remember them. That wasn't how he wanted them to remember _him_.

 _Stop thinking like that._ If he came back, it wouldn't matter that he hadn't wanted to say goodbye. And if he didn't come back, it wouldn't matter, because he would be dead. There wasn't anything he could say that they didn't already know. Nothing he could do – nothing _any_ of them could do – to make this moment easier. Maybe it was better if they let him handle it alone.

Yes. Yes, that was it. He could handle this alone. Derek shook his head, leaning back a little harder against the door. He could do this. He could do this by himself. Certainly their mentor wasn't going to be much help. Twenty-four years, and Simeon hadn't managed to bring home a single Victor. Every other district had at least one. If he wanted to be District Twelve's first Victor, he couldn't afford to rely on anyone but himself. He could do this alone.

He would _have_ to do this alone.

Finally, there was a knock on the door. But not his parents. Not his brother. Not any of his friends. The knock was too loud, too commanding. It had to be one of the Peacekeepers. Sure enough, as soon as he stood up and moved out of the way, the door opened, revealing two Peacekeepers, ready to take him to the train. _Okay._ Maybe it was better this way. Better to just get on with it. If he was leaving District Twelve, then maybe it was better if he just went quietly, without a fuss, without a fight. Maybe that was the better choice.


	16. Train Rides: Move Along

**Trigger Warning:** Brief mention of a desire to rape someone in Ludwig's POV (fourth one down) and thoughts of suicide in Sam's (eighth POV down).

* * *

 **Train Rides  
** **Move Along**

* * *

 **Sienna Ledger, 18  
** **District Twelve**

She still couldn't stop herself from shaking. Sienna gripped the handrail tightly as she stepped onto the train, finally free from the Peacekeepers who had brought her and Derek to the train. Their only company now was the two Capitolites who would be traveling with them – their mentor and their escort. The two of them were supposed to help their tributes survive the Games, but…

But so far, they had been unsuccessful. It was only Valerie's second year, but Simeon had been mentoring for twenty-four years without bringing home a tribute. Did she really have any reason to think this was the year that was going to break the pattern? Would it really be her or Derek coming home alive on this train?

"Help yourself to some snacks," Simeon offered, gesturing towards a table full of food. "Dinner won't be for a while yet, but that's no reason to go hungry."

Hungry. Sienna stared at the table, wondering if Simeon even knew the meaning of the word. If he'd ever been even the slightest bit hungry in his life. There was enough food on the table to last at least a week. Rolls and pastries, cookies and cakes, fruit and cheese and more meat than she ever got in District Twelve. If this was considered "snacks," she couldn't imagine what dinner might consist of.

Derek was already heading for the table, helping himself to a generous plateful of snacks. Sienna couldn't help a smile as she did the same. At least one of them would be dead in a couple weeks. Maybe both of them. _Probably_ both of them, if District Twelve's record for the last twenty-four years was anything to go by. But it wouldn't hurt to enjoy a little bit of what the Capitol had to offer now. If they were going to die for the Capitol's entertainment, then the Capitol _owed_ them this much, at least.

Sienna took a bite out of one of the pears. Maybe it _was_ only fair that they were treated to some luxury before the Games. But she would trade it all to be back in District Twelve with her father. Back in the mines, slaving away day after day. She never thought she would _want_ to be back at work, with nothing to look forward to but a life of labor. But at least that would have been a _life_.

"Just think," Valeria mused. "If one of you wins, you can eat like this _every_ day."

Sienna glanced down at her plate. That was supposed to be the appeal of the Games. The promise of a life of luxury and plenty for the Victor. And maybe in some districts, that was enough to make it worth the risk. The Career systems, after all, had started with that mentality. Children who had been left with nothing during the rebellion had begun training in the hopes of winning a better life for themselves. Maybe in other districts, that made sense.

But in District Twelve, it simply wasn't worth the risk. No one in District Twelve saw winning the Games as a real possibility. They didn't have any Victors living in Victors' Village to remind them that coming out alive was possible. Maybe if they did…

Sienna dug her fork into a piece of pie. If they did, maybe things wouldn't seem quite so hopeless. Maybe she could provide that hope for her district. Maybe she could _be_ that hope. Maybe that was _why_ the district had voted for her in the first place. Maybe they _wanted_ her to be that symbol of what was possible. Maybe – just _maybe_ – she could make it back and give that to them.

* * *

 **Ethan Vetch, 18  
** **District Eleven**

"Enjoy it while you can," Nolan suggested as the four of them – Ethan, Apple, and their mentors Nolan and Isaac – sat down around the table. "I'm sure it's better than anything you've had back home."

Ethan certainly couldn't argue with that. He had spent most of his life harvesting food, but the workers got so little of it. Sometimes people tried to sneak a little extra, but it wasn't worth the risk of getting caught – not when the Peacekeepers were so harsh. Out of habit, he glanced around before filling his plate. Making sure it was okay. "Don't worry," Isaac assured him. "That's what it's here for. Nolan and I certainly aren't going to eat all of it ourselves."

Ethan couldn't help a smile. He felt hungry enough to eat every morsel on the table, but he settled for filling his plate. He eagerly sank his teeth into one of the warm, delicious rolls, devouring half of it before even thinking to spread butter or jam on it. "There's plenty more where that came from," Nolan chuckled.

Apple shook her head. "How can you eat?"

Ethan shrugged. "I'm hungry. Aren't you?"

Of course she was. Everyone in District Eleven was hungry. Or, at least, everyone except the very richest. And she didn't seem to be in that group. Apple nodded. "Of course, but … but how can you eat after what just happened?"

"It's not as if it's going to get any better," Ethan reasoned. "Might as well take advantage of the food while we can."

"He's right," Nolan agreed. "You'll need all the strength you can get, as soon as you can get it. Once you're in the arena, there's no telling when your next meal might be."

"Or _if_ you'll get a next meal," Apple spat. "That doesn't bother you?"

Nolan sighed. "Of course it bothers us. But sulking isn't going to change it. Eating isn't going to change anything either, of course. If you _want_ to keep starving, that's not really our problem. But a few bites wouldn't hurt…"

Apple reluctantly started filling her plate. "I guess not."

Nolan smiled a little. "That's the spirit. Now, before we get too far into discussing … well, anything to do with the Games … I'm technically Ethan's mentor, and Isaac is yours. So the first question we should probably sort out is whether you want to be mentored together or separately."

For a moment, the question hung in the air. Ethan glanced at Apple, then back at their mentors. He didn't want to appear too eager to be coached together – didn't want to arouse her suspicions by seeming _too_ willing to form an alliance – but the idea of having two mentors helping both of them instead of just one … well, it made sense. Nolan had the experience, while Isaac was younger and had dealt with the Careers in his own arena. If he could benefit from advice from both of them…

"Together?" Apple ventured when he didn't answer. But the question was directed at him rather than Isaac and Nolan. "I don't really have anything to hide."

Ethan nodded. Neither did he. "Together is fine with me. We don't have to decide whether we want to be _allies_ now, but … well, I don't suppose it would hurt to get some of the same advice."

"Fair enough," Nolan agreed. "Allies can wait. For now, I would suggest eating, and getting a good night's sleep if you can. Once we get to the Capitol, you'll meet your prep team, and then we'll prepare for the chariot rides. Not usually the spot where District Eleven shines…"

He trailed off, but he didn't have to say it. District Eleven's costumes were usually a bit ridiculous. The last few years had been some variation on fruit or fruit baskets, and there wasn't really any reason to think that this year would be any different. But that didn't matter right now. Nolan was right; that sort of thing could wait. Right now, he was hungry.

* * *

 **Ellerey "Elle" Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

She didn't understand how Barnabas could be so hungry. He'd devoured at least three plates full of food before they'd headed for their separate rooms to change. She'd eaten, too, but not nearly as much. She'd had lunch earlier, after all.

Maybe he hadn't. Elle slipped out of her reaping dress and into a simple soft pink dress she'd found in the wardrobe. It was warm and clean and soft – almost _too_ comfortable. Almost comfortable enough to make her forget – if only for a moment – _why_ she was there in the first place.

But she couldn't forget. Not for long. And it wouldn't do her any good to ignore what was going on. Elle took a deep breath and made her way out of her room and back towards the main compartment, where Brindel was waiting for her. Brindel let out a grunt, as if dissatisfied. "I guess the stylists have their work cut out for them."

Elle could feel her face growing red with embarrassment before there was a chuckle behind her. "I'm going to assume that was directed at me," Barnabas offered, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, which were far too long for him. He'd already cuffed the ends of his pants, but the clothes still looked comically large on him. "I guess they weren't really expecting someone my size this year."

 _Or any year._ She didn't say it out loud, but even most years' smallest tributes weren't _his_ size. Elle wasn't exactly tall for her age, and she was still at least a foot taller than him. "The s-s-stylists will have t-time to f-figure s-s-something out," she offered, turning to Brindel.

Their mentor nodded. "True. And even if they don't, you have bigger problems than that."

To Elle's surprise, Barnabas simply nodded. "You're right. So why don't we talk about something that actually matters?"

Brindel smirked. "Down to business, huh? I like that. Come have a seat." She gestured to the couches on the other side of the room. "Since there's only one of me, I hope you don't mind getting a little preliminary advice together, at least."

Barnabas nodded. "Fine with me."

Elle nodded her agreement as she took a seat on the couch. Barnabas hoisted himself up into a seat beside her, and Brindel sat down opposite them. "First bit of advice," their mentor started, leaning forward a little in her chair. "From this point on, it doesn't matter why you're here. It doesn't matter why people voted for you. Hell, it doesn't matter that people voted at _all_. From this point on, you're a tribute – just like any other year. And your focus needs to be on the Games, not on whatever might have landed you in them in the first place."

Elle looked away. That was easy to _say_. But she hadn't been voted into the Games by her own district. Brindel had _volunteered_. She'd _wanted_ to be in the Games. Elle couldn't imagine that. Then again, a few days ago, she wouldn't have imagined that her district hated her enough to vote for her, and yet here she was.

Here they _both_ were. What had Barnabas done that had made them want to vote for him – or, perhaps, to vote for his brother, who had caused such a stir at the reaping? Barnabas, for his part, simply nodded agreeably. "Not exactly something I want to remember anyway," he shrugged.

Elle swallowed hard. If only it was that simple. She certainly didn't want to remember, either. She didn't want to remember the people who had simply stood there and watched while she was dragged to the stage. The people who had voted for a fourteen-year-old kid because of what her father had done. Or what they _thought_ he had done. He certainly hadn't done anything bad enough to justify _this_.

"Elle?" Barnabas' voice broke through her thoughts, and she could feel a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

No. No, she wasn't all right. But she couldn't tell him that. Couldn't tell _Brindel_ that. She was a tribute now. Every moment now counted. Every moment could help her or hurt her. She might not be in the arena yet, but she was already fighting for her life. "I-I-I'm fine," she lied.

Brindel nodded knowingly. "All right, then. Second piece of advice: keep telling yourself that."

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

Their mentors didn't waste much time deciding to mentor him and Brindle separately. Ludwig could still hear her screaming from the other compartment – still shouting obscenities at the top of her lungs. Maybe she didn't understand yet. Maybe it hadn't registered that no matter how loud she screamed, it wasn't going to make one bit of difference. No one was going to listen. And no one was going to save her.

No one was going to save him either, of course. But he didn't _need_ anyone to come to his rescue. He didn't really need Raven's advice, either, but at least it meant he was alone with her. She was trying to hide it, but she was clearly uncomfortable. Perhaps worried or even _afraid_ of what he might do.

He wasn't stupid enough to try anything, of course. Not yet. Not when she had the power to control what sort of help he might receive in the arena. Besides, the Capitol audience wouldn't take kindly to a tribute who had harmed one of their Victors. Even a Victor from District Nine. No, he would have to be patient. He could wait until after he'd won to have his way with her.

But that didn't mean he had to play nice. Ludwig glanced over at Raven across the table, licking his lips before taking a bite of the chicken. It was warm and tender and delicious – just like he liked it. Everything was perfect.

"So," Ludwig began, leaning forward across the table. "Any advice?"

Raven leaned back a little – probably subconsciously. But when she finally spoke, the words surprised him. "Don't hold back."

That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "Really?"

Raven nodded. "Back in District Nine, everyone already knows who you are. They know what you've done. But aside from your district partner, the other tributes won't have a clue. And the Capitol audience won't know – not unless you tell them. Not unless you _show_ them. You're already exactly what they want. You're a killer. You're ruthless. But they don't _know_ that yet."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. Did she mean it? Or was she trying to trick him into doing something reckless that would force the Gamemakers and the other tributes to target him? She was right about the Capitol wanting blood. That was why the Careers had been so successful, after all. But something about her words still sounded off. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You asked if I had any advice. I'm your mentor; it's my job to give you advice, even if that advice makes me sick."

"You killed in the arena," Ludwig pointed out.

"I did," Raven conceded. "But not for fun. Not for sport. It was the end of the Games, and we were the only two left. I did what I had to do in order to come home. But I certainly didn't _enjoy_ it. Not like—"

"Not like I do," Ludwig finished.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but yes," Raven agreed. "But even if _I_ didn't enjoy it, the Capitol did. They adore tributes who kill for the fun of it. You'll fit right in … once you're in the arena. Just try not to do anything stupid _before_ the Games."

"Such as?"

"Don't antagonize the Careers, for starters," Raven offered. "I'd steer clear of them, unless you're thinking about joining them."

"Not a chance."

Raven shrugged. "Probably for the best. You don't strike me as a people person."

"How long did it take you to figure that out?" Ludwig scoffed.

Raven smiled a little. "You're doing fine with me."

"You're not competition." And she wasn't. She was trying to help. But even that felt strange. She couldn't really _want_ him to make it out of the Games alive. But maybe she figured he had a better chance than Brindle. Or maybe she'd simply drawn the short straw. Either way, she was here to help him – at least for a little while. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

* * *

 **Dustine "Dusty" Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

Maybe her chances weren't so bad, after all. Dusty leaned back a little as the reapings continued to play. Districts One and Two had gone pretty much as expected. Their tributes certainly looked like Careers – older and muscular, or at least fit. The girl from Three, however, was begging as she took the stage, and the boy wasn't much better – promising to make his district proud even while he was shaking like a leaf. District Four's tributes were more Careers – or, at least, they certainly looked like Careers.

Districts Five and Six each had an eighteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old, but District Seven was a different story. The girl was fourteen, the boy fifteen. The boy was scrawny and clearly malnourished. District Nine had two eighteen-year-olds, but the girl was shouting at the top of her lungs. If the Capitol thought she was too rebellious, they might decide to take her out themselves. And even if they didn't, she would be an obvious mark for the Careers.

District Ten looked about as promising as Seven. The girl was young and clearly terrified as she was dragged to the stage, kicking and screaming. The boy, despite being eighteen, wasn't much better. At least he wasn't making a fuss, but he was barely four feet tall, if even that, with stubby little arms and legs that probably meant he couldn't run very fast or hold a heavier weapon properly. District Eleven had the sense to pick two stronger eighteen-year-olds, but Twelve's girl tried to run, and the boy was barely managing not to cry as he joined her onstage.

After Twelve's reaping finished, the tape clicked off. "So what do you think?" Selwyn asked.

The question had probably been directed at Woof, but Dusty answered anyway. "For a quell where the districts got to choose their best tributes, I expected a bit more than that."

"More?"

"I don't know. Criminals, maybe. Gang members. Drug dealers. Not … little kids."

Selwyn leaned back in his chair. "Is that why they picked you?"

Dusty smirked. "Maybe." Better to let him wonder. Better not to admit that she'd never done anything more illegal than a little gambling. Maybe she wasn't exactly a hardened criminal, but she'd been around enough seedier characters to know the value of a good secret – or even _pretending_ to have a good secret. If he even _thought_ she might have an ace up her sleeve...

Dusty fingered the playing card in her pocket. "What've you got there?" Woof asked, maybe expecting a weapon or something. Dusty chuckled a little as she pulled it out. The eight of diamonds. "My district token," she shrugged. Webber had given it to her for good luck when he'd come to say goodbye. She turned to Selwyn. "What'd you bring?"

Selwyn shook his head. "Nothing. District Eight voted to send me into the Games. I'm not taking anything that might remind me of that."

Dusty nodded. Fair enough. Maybe it was a bit strange – taking a token to remind her of the district that had voted to send her to her death. But the playing card … it didn't really remind her of the whole district. Just Webber. And he certainly hadn't voted for her. He hadn't wanted to send her into the Games.

He just wanted her to come home.

Home. Dusty chuckled a little at the thought. When had she started thinking of Webber's place as home? It was certainly more of a home for her than her own house had ever been. He was more of a father to her than her family had ever provided. Her district token reminded her of him, and that was good enough.

"Violet brought a pair of dice," Woof mumbled, and Dusty looked away. That wasn't her problem. It wasn't as if _she_ had killed Violet. Maybe she'd made a profit off the girl's death, but she would have died either way. Someone might as well benefit from it.

Dusty turned the playing card over in her hands. That had been easier to say before – before she'd been chosen for the Games herself. If someone made a profit on _her_ death, what would Webber say? She hoped it wouldn't come to that – that she wouldn't die in the first place – but if she _did_ … well, someone might as well benefit from it.

* * *

 **Basil Larch, 15  
** **District Seven**

He might as well take advantage of it while he could. Basil helped himself to another piece of pie as the last of the reapings flashed on the screen. Twelve districts. Twelve districts, and only two tributes who were younger than him – Narra and the girl from Ten. A couple sixteen-year-olds, but mostly seventeen and eighteen-year-olds. And almost all of them were bigger and stronger than him.

Basil leaned back against the couch, trying not to think about it. He'd known, when he'd begun his little campaign, that most of the tributes would be older than him. Having that confirmed didn't change anything. Or, at least, it shouldn't have. But it all felt a bit more real now. He was really doing this. He was really on his way to the Games. He might really _die_.

Basil glanced over at Narra, who was still watching the screen intently despite the fact that it had gone dark. Their mentor, Filbert, was trying to keep his expression neutral, but their escort, Vita, was shaking her head. Maybe wondering what she had done wrong to end up with the pair of them rather than the older, stronger tributes that most districts had had the sense to choose.

"Well, I suppose it could be worse," she sighed at last. "It could be District Ten."

Basil held his tongue. District Ten's tributes weren't the most promising, maybe, but even if he and Narra had more potential than them, that still left ten other districts to contend with.

To his surprise, Narra spoke up. "I wouldn't discount them yet."

Filbert turned. "Who? District Ten?"

"Any of them," Narra answered matter-of-factly. "You were only fifteen when you won."

Filbert nodded. "True enough. But I got lucky."

"Then what's to say that someone won't get lucky this year?"

"Nothing," Filbert admitted. "But if I were you, I'd focus on making sure it's _you_ who gets lucky – not District Ten."

"I suppose," Narra agreed. "So what would you suggest?"

Filbert thought for a moment. "I wouldn't suggest teaming up with each other, for starters."

"Why not?" Narra asked, clearly surprised. Basil raised an eyebrow. Had she been thinking about allying with him? Had she _wanted_ to ally with him? He'd just assumed from the start that he would be going into the Games alone. That no one would want him as an ally. But if Narra _wanted_ to be allies…

That wasn't what she'd said, of course. She'd simply asked why Filbert would suggest that they _not_ team up together. "Because you're going to need help," Filbert answered simply. "You're going to need allies who are stronger than you. On your own, either of you might be able to find someone who's willing to work with you. Someone who's willing to tolerate your lack of physical strength because they'll assume you know your way around the woods, that you can climb, that you might be able to tell plants apart. That might be enough for them to ally with _one_ tribute who's physically lacking … but not two. If you two insist on sticking together, they'll probably look elsewhere."

Narra glanced at Basil, who shrugged. Filbert had a good point. Would _he_ want to ally with two of the youngest, weakest tributes in the Games when there were other options? Certainly the older tributes would look for someone else who could help them physically. That's what he would do if he was older and stronger.

But he wasn't older and stronger. He clearly wouldn't have his choice of allies. But that was all right. He was used to having to make do. And if he couldn't find anyone … well, maybe that was all right, too. Maybe he was better off alone.

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16  
** **District Six**

Part of him wished they would just leave him alone. Zion leaned back in his chair as Finch, Elva, and Canton continued to chat, doing their best to analyze the twenty-two other tributes from a few moments during the reaping. And maybe that was enough to tell who wanted to be in the Games and who didn't, but, aside from that, the general agreement was that a reaping didn't really reveal much.

So why were they still talking about it?

"I'm just glad no one chose anyone too young," Elva repeated for what was probably the third time. And maybe it made sense – a bit of relief that they wouldn't have to worry about killing any twelve or thirteen year olds. But, on the other hand, that meant that most of the other tributes were at least as old as him. In a regular year, he would be somewhere around the middle of the tributes' age ranges – maybe a little bit lower because Careers were usually seventeen or eighteen. But this year…

This year, there were only a few tributes who were younger than him. Three, to be exact – both of District Seven's tributes and the girl from Ten. Most of them were Finch's age, and most of them were closer to her height and strength. Most. Not all, but a large enough portion to make him one of the weaker tributes in the arena.

Not that that was much of a surprise. He wasn't used to being the biggest or strongest person around, anyway. It had never even crossed his mind to try to outmatch the other tributes physically. That simply wasn't an option. He would have to be more careful. He couldn't win by brute strength, but maybe…

Zion shook his head as he slipped out of the room and into the next compartment. It was getting late. Maybe if he got some sleep now, things would be a bit clearer in the morning.

Or maybe they would be even worse.

"Decided to call it a night?" came a voice from behind him. Zion whirled around, startled. He hadn't realized that Canton had been following him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," their escort apologized. "Just wanted to make sure you found your way to your room all right."

Zion shook his head. "It's not as if there are many other options. Where did you expect me to go – off the train?"

Canton shrugged. "We've had a few tributes try. But you don't strike me as the sort."

Zion hesitated, not quite sure whether Canton had meant that as a compliment or not. Did he mean that at least Zion had the sense not to try to jump off the train and kill himself? Or that he wasn't clever enough to figure out a way to get off the train without causing himself harm? "You've had tributes try to escape?"

"Every now and then. None of them got very far, though. We've gotten pretty good at getting people where they're supposed to go."

 _We_. It was surprising, really, how easy it was to forget that Canton was a Capitolite. He had mentored during the First Games, after all, and he'd stuck with District Six ever since, unlike some of the other escorts who moved around year after year, waiting to get assigned to a better district. There were rumors that maybe he was involved with Elva, but Zion had never paid much attention to rumors. They'd never really seemed to matter much.

And they didn't really matter now, either. All that mattered was that Canton and Elva were supposed to be helping him get back home. Well, him or Finch. The pair of them probably didn't really care _which_ of their tributes came home, as long as they brought home a Victor. It had been so long since District Six had a Victor at all, they weren't really in a position to be picky.

But _he_ was. In order for him to come home alive, Finch would have to die. Every other tribute in the arena would have to die. And he would have to kill. Zion closed the door to his room behind him. He didn't want to think about that. Not yet. Right now, he just wanted them to leave him alone. Right now, he just wanted to rest. He just hoped he would be able to sleep.

* * *

 **Samantha "Sam" Hacka, 16  
** **District Five**

She still couldn't sleep. Sam rolled over a little in her bed, but she already knew it wasn't going to help. The bed wasn't the problem. It was certainly soft enough, comfortable enough. But that wasn't enough to keep her mind off everything else. Off the Games. The fact that she had been chosen to go into the arena. Somehow, her district had picked her.

There was a part of her that was grateful. That part had won out at the reaping. After all, this was what she'd wanted. She'd thought about volunteering before but had never quite worked up the guts to go through with it. Now that her district had taken the decision out of her hands, she should be grateful. Now if she died – no, _when_ she died – no one back home would have to feel guilty. No one would have to feel like they'd let her down or wonder what they could have done differently, whether there was something they could have said that would have changed her mind, something that would have saved her.

There was no saving her now. She would make sure of that. But now that it was certain – now that she was actually on the train – there was another little voice nagging in the back of her mind. She was going to die, yes, but that didn't mean she was going to die right _away_. She still had a few days. Another day on the train, and then a few days in the Capitol before the actual Games.

It would almost be better if she didn't. If they could just get on with it. But since that wasn't an option, she might as well try to take advantage of the time she had. Sam stretched a little and made her way back to the dining car, almost surprised that she was still hungry.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one; the light was already on, and Atticus was digging through the well-stocked pantry. "Anything good in there?" Sam asked, and Atticus jumped backward, startled. "Sorry," Sam apologized. "Thought you would've heard me coming."

"You'd think," Atticus agreed, holding out a bowl full of fruit. Sam chose a peach and took a seat in one of the nearby chairs. "I see you couldn't sleep, either," Atticus offered.

Sam scoffed. "What gave it away?"

"You're still awake," Atticus reasoned, completely oblivious. "I wish I could say you'll sleep better tomorrow, or the next night, but that doesn't really happen. You'll probably never sleep well again."

Sam shrugged. "Never really been a great sleeper, anyway."

Atticus nodded. "Can't say I'm surprised. You didn't strike me as the type to just sit around and rest."

Sam shook her head. "You don't know anything about me."

"Only what I've seen," Atticus agreed. "Which isn't much, really. You left us all alone after dinner. Didn't want to watch the reapings?"

"Not much point," Sam reasoned. "What can you tell from a reaping?"

"What, indeed?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you smiling."

"And?"

"Not really something you'd expect from someone who's been chosen for a fight to the death. Unless they're glad someone finally made the decision for them."

"You don't know anything."

Atticus settled down in a chair across from her. "Maybe not. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Or maybe … maybe you can't sleep now because you're not so sure, after all. Maybe you're having second thoughts, now that it's out of your hands." He shook his head. "Look, Sam, if you want to die, there are twenty-three other tributes in the arena who will be happy to oblige. But if there's any _chance_ that you want to live … now would be a good time to admit it to yourself."

Sam took another bite out of her peach. "Sure. Thanks." She'd heard the same sort of thing before. From her parents. From her friends. From everyone who was convinced that if she simply sat down and _thought_ a little harder, she would change her mind. They meant well. They didn't know any better. But that didn't make them right.

* * *

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18  
** **District Four**

It was still early when she woke, stretching a little as she chose an outfit from the closet. Just a simple blouse and skirt – nothing too fancy. They would be arriving at the Capitol soon enough, anyway. She could let the stylists worry about making her look pretty. Until then, she had enough on her plate. She headed for the dining car, where Mags was already waiting for her and Kekoa. Mora glanced around. "Where's Hudson?"

Mags shrugged. "He'll be here eventually. He's not exactly a morning person. He'd probably say he's getting in as much sleep as he can before he has to put in a lot of late nights during the Games."

Mora nodded. Maybe that made sense – getting as much rest as they could while they were in the Capitol. Maybe that was what Kekoa was doing, too. "But not you?"

"Always been an early riser, myself," Mags shrugged. "Even more so after the Games. Staying awake until all hours, having to be alert every minute of the day … it affects how you sleep."

"Even after … what? Fourteen years?"

"Even after fourteen years. It's not something that you forget."

Mora nodded. "I guess that makes sense for you."

Mags smiled a little. "For me?"

"Since you're not a Career. The Games aren't something you signed up for. You and Hudson – you never _wanted_ to be in them. But I _want_ to be here."

Mags nodded. "I'm sure you do. Now, at least. But once you're in the arena, then…"

"Then nothing. This is what I've been training for for years!"

Mags looked away. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, you got that much right," agreed a voice behind Mora. She turned to see Hudson shaking his head. "The next time you play the you-might-not-want-to-go-through-with-this card, Mags, play it _before_ the reaping. Doesn't matter now whether she wants to be here or not. She's here, and the only way she's going home is if she wins, so she should probably focus on that." He clapped Mora on the back. "Worry about being able to sleep later."

"I won't have to."

"That's the spirit," Hudson agreed. "Let's get some breakfast, and then we can talk about alliances."

Mora shook her head. "What's there to talk about? We watched the reapings last night. Districts One and Two seem like Careers to me."

Hudson glanced at Mags, then back to Mora. "Let's take our breakfast somewhere else."

Mags chuckled. "Afraid I might rat you out to Kekoa?"

Hudson shrugged. "Just holding off until he's sure he wants to be part of the pack."

Mora raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Do you know something?"

Hudson shook his head. "Follow me."

He headed for the next car, and Mora followed. "What did you mean back there?" Mora asked as soon as she was certain Mags wouldn't be able to hear them.

Hudson shook his head. "I didn't mean anything."

"What?"

"He'll be part of the pack. Probably. But see how easy it was to raise doubts? To create a little conflict, a little uncertainty? Watch out for that when you're in the arena. It won't just be Kekoa you have to worry about. There are probably six of you, and there _will_ be conflict. If not at the start, then eventually – once the number of tributes starts to dwindle. That voice in the back of your mind – the part that's wondering if you can trust Kekoa? Keep listening to it. It might save your life."

Mora shook her head. "You didn't even _have_ any allies during your Games."

Hudson smirked. "Yeah. And that's why. I'm not going to pretend the same thing is going to work for you – not when everyone will be assuming the Careers pack is a sure thing this year. But just remember that even your _allies_ aren't allies when it comes down to it." He shook his head. "And they're certainly not friends."

* * *

 **Arirang "Ari" Zeno, 17  
** **District Three**

At least Hesper wasn't making any effort to pretend to be friends. Their breakfast had been short and polite, but utterly devoid of anything approaching friendliness. For that, he was grateful. People tended to assume that tributes from Three would work well together. They were often labeled as the smarter tributes, the nerdier ones, the ones who were a little bit off. But Hesper certainly didn't seem to fit that bill, which hopefully meant that people wouldn't lump them together and assume they were allies.

Not that there was anything _wrong_ with her. Not really. But if he was going to find allies, he wanted people who knew what they were doing. Not the Careers, certainly. It wasn't unheard of for an outer-district tribute to try to join the pack, but doing so immediately painted a target on their back, marking them both as an outsider in the Career pack and as the weakest link. The one outer district tributes would try to pick off first if they came up against the pack. And the first one the Careers would suspect if something went wrong inside the pack.

No, the best thing to do was to avoid the Careers. But that still left eight districts' worth of possible allies, even if he discounted Hesper. Ari turned to Addison as soon as both of them were finished with their breakfast. "I think we should watch the reapings again."

"Again?" Tobias chuckled from across the table. "You already watched them twice yesterday. What more do you think you're going to learn from watching them again? Hell, what do you think you're going to figure out from a reaping in the first place? Do you know what I did when I was reaped?"

Ari shrugged. He wasn't old enough to remember Tobias' Games, and the reapings weren't something that was generally played when the highlights of previous Games were shown, unless something out of the ordinary had happened. He remembered Brindel's reaping – the only outer-district volunteer to make it out of the Games alive. But other than that…

"Cried?" Harper asked sarcastically.

Tobias smirked. "Yeah, actually."

Hesper raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Tobias nodded. "Kid, I was fourteen. No fourteen-year-old had ever won before. I thought I was a goner for sure. But once I started training, I started to see things a bit differently. I found a couple allies – allies I figured would help me survive. I learned. I adapted. And I _survived._ That's what it really takes to win the Games – the ability to adapt, to change, to become someone else. Someone _stronger._ And you can't tell from a reaping who's got that."

Ari shook his head. "I don't _want_ allies who have that. I don't want allies who are going to _win_ the Games. _I_ want to win."

Addison couldn't help a chuckle. "This kid's got the right idea. Come on, Ari. If you want to watch the reapings again, we'll watch the reapings, and these two can enjoy the rest of their breakfast in peace."

Ari nodded. That was better, anyway. If it was just him and Addison, the two of them could discuss strategy without having to worry that Tobias or Hesper might be listening. Not that he had much of a secret plan. Not _yet_. But once he did, he certainly didn't want to share it with them.

"Let's just skip the Career districts," Ari suggested as the pair of them settled down.

Addison shrugged. "What? You mean you don't want to pretend to be a Career?"

"It didn't strike me as the best—"

"I was kidding," Addison assured him. "Not a good plan. Let's start with District Five, then."

Ari nodded, and Addison set the tape. The girl from Five didn't look like much of a threat, but she was _smiling_. What was that about? He still wasn't sure how anyone could be _happy_ to be going into the Games. Well, aside from the Careers, but even they usually didn't look happy – just rather smug. And they certainly didn't look _relieved._

Ari watched silently as the tape moved on to the boy. There would be time to figure the girl out later, if he wanted to. She certainly didn't seem like ally material. Someone who was relieved to be going into the Games wasn't someone he wanted at his side. Besides, there were plenty of other tributes to choose from.

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

They'd had plenty of other girls to choose from. Valkyrie took a deep breath as the train finally started to slow down, signaling their arrival at the Capitol. They could have chosen any other girl who had been training. Any of the others would have been delighted to take her place. But here she was, on the train with…

With Careers. Valkyrie glanced over at Vino, who was grinning from ear to ear at the sight of the Capitol's buildings. She had to admit, they were quite a sight. But they were a sight she would have been happy to observe from a screen, safely at home. Instead, she was here. And the only way she would be going home again would be if twenty-three other tributes – twenty-three other _children_ – died.

But she couldn't keep thinking about that. And she couldn't admit that it disturbed her. Sickened her. Because that wasn't what the Capitol was expecting from a Career. They didn't want to see a Career who was troubled by what they'd done; Fabian was proof enough of that. He'd never mentored, and probably wouldn't receive a warm welcome in the Capitol if he ever decided to. Careers weren't supposed to feel _sorry_ for what they'd done. Careers weren't supposed to have second thoughts. Careers weren't supposed to feel _squeamish._ Careers were supposed to be ruthless. Bloodthirsty. They weren't supposed to be…

Human. They weren't supposed to _seem_ human. But the three of them on the train with her – Vino, Clint, even Cliff – they seemed human enough. Cliff was a bit harsh, and maybe Clint was a bit cold, but they certainly didn't seem like the cold-blooded killers she'd seen when she'd watched the highlights of their Games. It was easy to forget, standing here with them, that they'd each killed … how many tributes? Five? Six? She wasn't entirely sure, but it was a lot. How did they live with that?

How was _she_ going to live with that?

Valkyrie clenched her fists, forcing a smile as the others turned towards her. She had to pretend. She couldn't let them see how much this disgusted her. How horrible it was that twenty-three kids – including Vino – would have to die if she wanted to see District Two again. And seeing the other reapings … well, that hadn't made it any better. Most of the other tributes were older, yes, but still … they were still so young. Seventeen, eighteen – that was still too young to die.

But, by the same token, that also meant _she_ was too young to die. If she was reluctant to kill the others, they must surely feel the same way about her. Wouldn't they?

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the fact that she was a Career meant that they would feel less guilty if it came down to her life or theirs. For all they knew, she had wanted to be here. For all they knew, she had been campaigning, _begging_ for votes just like so many of the others. That was what she would assume, after all.

No. No, it was what she _had_ assumed. She was assuming that the _rest_ of the Careers wanted to be there. That she was the odd one out and the rest were just as ruthless, just as cold-blooded as they were expected to be. But what if … what if they were _all_ pretending? What if they were _all_ fooling everyone – including each other – repeating the same line about glory and honor without really believing it, without really believing that it was worth the cost?

What if _none_ of them wanted to be there?

Valkyrie glanced over at Vino again. _He_ certainly seemed to want to be here. Did that mean he was simply a better actor, or was he really excited to be in the Games? She wished she could ask. But she couldn't – not without admitting that this wasn't what she'd wanted. That this had never been what she'd wanted. And she couldn't afford to admit that to anyone. Especially not another Career.

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18  
** **District One**

He just hoped their stylists had something good planned. Argent glanced from side to side as he and Clementine, led by Jerica and Angelo, made their way through the crowds. Since the first tribute parade back during the Fifteenth Games, the stylists had boasted increasingly more elaborate chariot outfits – some better, some worse. District One had usually been quite impressive. But some of the outer districts … well, their industries weren't all that exciting to start off with. It was one thing to design an outfit for a district whose industry was luxury. But grain? Or fabric? How exciting could that be?

That wasn't his problem, of course. As long as District One's outfits were the best, the other districts could have whatever silly outfits they wanted. Even the other Career districts weren't really his problem. Allying with the Career pack had become a bit of a necessity, but that didn't mean that he had to care what their outfits looked like, or whether or not _they_ managed to make an impression.

Of course, Careers already had an advantage when it came to making an impression. The audience _expected_ the Careers to be the tributes to watch, the tributes to beat. Even if their chariot outfits happened to be a bit mediocre, the Capitol wasn't about to _ignore_ a Career. Certainly not a Career as good as him.

Angelo watched as Clementine waved eagerly to the crowd, already kissing up to the audience. _Let her._ He didn't need to wave and smile in order to earn their favor. Once they were in the arena, his actions would speak for themselves. The girl had done a good job of campaigning, clearly – otherwise she wouldn't be here. But winning an election wasn't the same as winning the Games. It required an entirely different skill set.

A skill set _he_ had.

Finally, the crowd parted enough to let them into the building. "Here's where we split up," Angelo explained. "Argent, you're with me. Clementine, you follow Jerica – you're down the hall."

Clementine nodded agreeably and followed her mentor down the hall. "Just between you and me," Angelo began once they were gone, "you need to work on being friendlier with your allies."

Argent shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"You barely said two words at breakfast. Clementine, Jerica, and I were trying to discuss alliances, but you—"

"There's nothing to discuss," Argent shrugged. "The six of us are allies – the two of us and the pairs from Two and Four."

"Probably. That's certainly what everyone will expect. But with so many older tributes this year, it might not hurt to have an extra tribute or two."

Argent scoffed. "You mean someone from the _outer_ districts."

"It was just a suggestion," Angelo pointed out. "But since you apparently weren't listening at breakfast…"

Argent rolled his eyes. He _had_ been listening. "It was a dumb idea then, and it's a dumb idea now. But if that's what the others want to do, it's just one more tribute we won't have to look for later, if we keep them close."

Angelo smiled a little. "Good point."

Of _course_ it was a good point. "Let's get going," Argent growled. "We're wasting time."

Angelo chuckled. "If you think _this_ is a waste of time, wait until your stylists spend the next three or four hours trying to figure out what to do with your hair."

Argent raised an eyebrow. "You don't like the parade, either?"

"Never saw the point, really," Angelo admitted. "Of course, that wasn't introduced until after my Games, so maybe I just don't have the same sense of nostalgia as the others. As far as I see it, we're here to fight. Trying to dress it up as something bright and cheerful is a bit … tasteless."

Argent nodded. He would have said _pointless_ , but that was close enough. Maybe he and Angelo were going to get along after all.

* * *

 **Just wanted to let you know that there's a poll on my profile. :)**


	17. Chariot Rides: Dress Up

**Chariot Rides  
** **Dress Up**

* * *

 **Clementine Acres, 18  
** **District One**

She couldn't be happier with what their stylists had come up with. Clementine couldn't hide a smile when she saw Argent's matching outfit – a gold robe to go with her golden dress, a jeweled crown to match hers, a scepter topped with a red ruby, just like hers. Their stylists were clearly trying to paint them as a pair. The king and queen of the Careers. Of the arena itself. Argent rolled his eyes when he saw her outfit, but that didn't matter. The audience wouldn't care if he came across as a little grumpy. That would only make her all the more appealing.

He didn't seem to realize just how big a role the audience could play in the Games. Physically, he was certainly capable, but the audience didn't just want a Victor who was capable of winning. They wanted one who was entertaining, one who was captivating, one who kept them on the edge of their seats. Especially this year, during a Quarter Quell, "grumpy" simply wouldn't cut it.

She knew better than to tell him that, of course. He wasn't going to listen, and, anyway, the fact that he wasn't as charming or personable as some of their previous Career Victors would play in her favor eventually. It wasn't as if his mood would affect their sponsors; Careers were always popular with the audience. But when the pack inevitably split, if they were both still alive, it could give her an edge.

Clementine couldn't help a little chuckle as she climbed into the chariot. She was already assuming that when the Careers split, she and Argent would find themselves in different groups. Aside from his skill as a fighter, there was nothing about him that would make her want to take his side in an inevitable Career fight.

Suddenly, the chariot started rolling, and Clementine shook the thought from her head. They were a long way from the Careers splitting up. She hadn't even had a chance before the chariots had begun moving to talk to any of her fellow Careers, let alone get a feel for where they would stack up in the pack. But that could wait. Right now, the audience was watching…

Clementine began waving as soon as she could see the outer edges of the audience. Argent scoffed a little, as if even the simple act of waving at the crowd was beneath him. But that was his loss. The Capitol liked confidence, yes. They even liked arrogance – as long as it was directed at the other tributes. But if it was directed at them…

She wouldn't make that mistake. Even if she thought their clothes were a bit silly, their hairstyles and tattoos and other modifications a little over the top. She would tolerate that the same way she had dealt with the people she had talked into voting for her. If winning the audience over was what it would take to make it out of the Games, then that was what she was going to do. She had come too far to do anything else.

Clementine glanced back at the chariot behind her. District Two. They were just as confident. They had been training just as hard, just as long. They had come just as far. And District Four – had their tributes been training most of their lives for this, too? Yes, she had what it took to win, but so did they. Each of them was capable. Each of them was a contender. And she would have to be careful if she wanted to make it out of the Games alive.

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18  
** **District Two**

He'd never been happier to be alive. Vino clapped Valkyrie on the back as the chariot kept rolling, the audience getting closer and closer in front of them. It wouldn't be long now before they would be able to see him up close, and their stylists had made sure that it would be worth it. Both he and Valkyrie had been coated head to toe in a glossy substance that gave their skin a marble-like tone. Each of them wore a skintight leotard that matched the gloss, giving the impression that the pair were literally made out of marble. That they were as strong as stone.

Vino could already hear the crowd cheering. Immediately, he froze in place, striking a pose like a statue. He waited a few seconds, then changed poses. And again. "What are you doing?" Valkyrie hissed, confused.

"Pretending to be a statue," Vino answered. Hadn't it been obvious?

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Vino grinned from his current pose, standing on one foot and flexing his muscles. "Hear that? They love it." Sure enough, the audience was cheering. There were a few laughs mixed in with the roar, but that was just as well. The audience didn't just want tributes who were attractive. They wanted tributes who were _entertaining._ And that was what he was here to do – for now, at least. That was what the tribute parade was _for_. For entertainment. For _fun_.

Valkyrie was unconvinced. "You look silly."

"That's the point. Try it."

"No."

"Oh, come on." He turned towards her, then froze again, holding out his hand as if asking her to dance. Valkyrie rolled her eyes again, but the crowd broke into applause. "Fine," Valkyrie muttered, swinging her arm towards him, but freezing just before her palm would have connected with his cheek. "Happy?"

"Very," Vino agreed, swinging back, but pausing just before his fist would have struck her side. Valkyrie unfroze, pretending to pick up some sort of weapon and holding it above her head as if about to strike before freezing again. Vino held back a chuckle as he turned around as if reaching for a weapon behind him, then froze in his pose as soon as he clasped the invisible handle.

Valkyrie swung. He countered. It _was_ almost like a dance. Neither of them was actually trying to hurt the other, of course, but at least they were letting the audience know that they were prepared to fight. That was what they were here for, after all. The parades and the lights and the crowds and the food and drink … it was all fun. But, when all of that was gone, they were here to fight. They were here to kill.

But not yet. For now, he could enjoy. For now, he could simply take it all in. The cheers of the crowd. The sight of his fellow Careers in the chariot in front of him, decked out in royal robes. Vino stole a glance at the chariots behind him. Their outfits were good, but none were quite as impressive as One and Two. In the years since the beginning of the Career system, the Capitol had learned to treat their Careers well.

Even before that, of course, Districts One and Two had been popular – partly because of their loyalty during the rebellion. They had been two of the last districts to join the rebellion, and the first to turn their backs on their fellow rebels and back the Capitol instead. And that loyalty had been well rewarded, both in the Games and out. Between their two districts, they already had nine Victors. Including District Four, Career districts had twelve out of the twenty-four Victors so far. That was half of the Victors – from only three districts. And with any luck, this year would bring one more.

* * *

 **Hesper Coventry, 18  
** **District Three**

She hadn't exactly been expecting an amazing costume. For the last ten years, District Three's costumes had been less than spectacular. Most had been some odd combination of computer keys, wires, and switches. This year was … well, she wasn't really sure if it was better or worse. She and Ari were covered in fuzzy, skin-toned fabric that gave off an odd shimmer when they moved. Apparently, the stylists had been trying to make them look like holographic images. But as far as Hesper could tell, they just looked shiny.

Maybe that was enough for the audience. Or maybe the cheering was meant for the two districts in front of them and the one behind. Being sandwiched between Career districts during the parade meant that no one really noticed District Three, but maybe that was for the best. She wasn't really used to being noticed, anyway. Why should this be any different?

Ari, for his part, wasn't making much of an effort to get the audience's attention, either. Maybe he realized that it would be pointless, that the audience was still watching District Two, and that their attention would be stolen immediately by District Four. Maybe he agreed that their outfits were silly, and it was better not to draw attention to themselves if they could help it. Maybe he wasn't particularly comfortable in the spotlight, either.

She wasn't really sure which of those explanations was right, but maybe it didn't matter. Ari hadn't made much of an effort to be friendly on the train. He certainly hadn't offered an alliance. So why should she worry about what he was doing? Yes, they were district partners, but that didn't mean anything once they were in the Games. She'd seen district partners kill each other in the arena. If the two of them found themselves in that sort of position, it would probably be better if they hadn't made friends beforehand.

Hesper gave the crowd a little wave as the chariots kept rolling. They probably wouldn't notice, but it wasn't as if it would do any harm, either. There was no harm in enjoying the moment. No harm in smiling and having a _little_ fun.

Any thought of fun, however, was quickly drowned out by the sight of District Two's tributes pretending to fight each other in their chariot. Or, at least, they _looked_ like they were pretending. They were Careers, though, so maybe they meant it. Or maybe they just wanted to look tough for the audience.

Tough. That certainly wasn't the impression she and Ari were giving off. But maybe that was for the best. If they tried to look _too_ tough – especially around so many Careers – they might put a target on their backs. Right now, it was probably best to do exactly what they were doing: try to appear normal. Average. Right now, that was probably the best they could ask for.

And 'average' was certainly something she was used to. Maybe even something she was good at. She waved a little. Smiled a little. Enough to let the audience know that she wasn't going to cause a scene by refusing to participate at all, but not enough to draw attention to herself and give the impression that she actually _wanted_ to be here.

 _Balance_. That was one of the things Tobias had told her on the train. She needed to find a balance between being interesting enough to get attention and being forgettable enough to fly under the Careers' radar – for a little while, at least. No one went unnoticed in the arena forever, but for now, it was the best plan she had.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18  
** **District Four**

For now, his only plan was to enjoy the moment. Kekoa gave the cameras another wave, raising his trident high. Beside him, Mora was tolerating what she probably thought was a silly outfit. The pair of them were dressed like mermaids, complete with sparkly, scale-coated tails. Colorful shells lined their arms and chests, and strands of what was probably supposed to be seaweed ran through their hair. It was District Four's best chariot costume yet, and he meant to enjoy it.

In front of him, the other Careers certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, as well. District One was dressed as royalty, District Two as statues. District Three was … something shiny. He could tell exactly what from behind. He hadn't glanced back to see what District Five was, but the audience didn't seem particularly excited about it.

The crowd, however, started to cheer every time he swung his trident, circling it high above his head. The chariot had been painted with schools of fish, and every now and then he'd plunge the trident down, pretending to spear one of them. Mora had been given a net, which she seemed considerably less thrilled about. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she muttered, swinging the net down, pretending to catch some fish. "We're here to fight, not catch dinner."

Kekoa couldn't help a chuckle. "Want to trade for a while?" Mora didn't reply, but she held out the net, and Kekoa handed her the trident. Immediately, he tossed the net over her head and pulled her a little closer. " _That's_ what you're supposed to do with a net," Kekoa pointed out.

Mora glared for a moment, but then broke out into laughter, using the trident to poke her way free out of the net. "Fair point," she agreed. "But now it's pretty ruined." And it was. The trident had sliced enough holes in the net to make it completely useless.

Kekoa shrugged. "Only needs to work once."

"Except when it doesn't."

She had a point. A weapon that would only work once wasn't good in most combat situations. A trident was certainly more useful. But that hadn't been the point – not really. He had gotten the audience's attention, and that was good enough, even if their stylists might be a bit perturbed that they'd ruined the net. There were still plenty of other props in the chariot to make use of.

Kekoa picked up one of the shells that their stylists had scattered around the chariot floor. The audience began to cheer, and he immediately tossed it into the crowd. Then another. And another. Mora waited only a moment before joining in. If nothing else, it meant that a few people in the Capitol audience would have a souvenir from the tribute parade – a souvenir that might make them more likely to remember District Four. More likely to _sponsor_ District Four.

Not that Career districts were usually lacking in supplies – not at the start of the Games, at least. Over the past ten years or so, a pattern had started to emerge. The Careers usually ended up taking control of the cornucopia at the start of the Games, securing enough supplies and weapons to last them a while.

But, eventually, the pack would split. Or the food would run out. Or _something_. And in those situations, sponsors were usually more likely to back District One or Two. Maybe that made some sense; only one of District Four's Victors could properly be described as a Career. But maybe this was the year that would finally change.

* * *

 **Isaiah "Snap" Shelby, 18  
** **District Five**

He'd been hoping this might be the year District Five's stylists decided to try a little harder. After ten years of mediocre costumes, they had to be getting tired of the lack of attention. And sure enough, they'd certainly decided to go with something a bit more out of the ordinary.

Snap rolled his eyes as the crowd began to laugh. Now he was wishing they'd gone a more traditional route. He and Sam were dressed as giant batteries, covered from head to toe in some sort of colored foil, with little hats that looked like the top of the battery. Maybe it wasn't the _silliest_ costume he'd ever seen in a tribute parade, but it was pretty close.

It shouldn't matter – not really. What the audience thought shouldn't have bothered him. And if had only been about what the audience thought tonight, it wouldn't have mattered. But the audience's reaction tonight would be the first thing in their minds when they thought of District Five – unless he gave them some other image to put in their heads.

He wasn't used to that. Back in his little corner of District Five, everyone knew his name. Everyone knew his _family's_ name. But here … here all the audience knew about him was that he was from District Five and dressed like a giant battery. That certainly wasn't the impression he wanted to leave them with.

But there wasn't much he could do about that now. District Two had started an impromptu fight, and District Four was tossing seashells. But Sam didn't seem to be in the mood to do anything as a team, and their stylists hadn't left them anything to throw from the chariot. So he would just have to wait for a better moment to leave in impression.

Fortunately, there wouldn't be a shortage of those. Every moment from this point on was a chance to make an impression – for better or worse. Any moment before the Games could affect his chances once he was in the arena, and every moment once the Games began would play into the next. From this moment on, he couldn't leave anything to chance. Everything had to be deliberate, everything had to give exactly the impression he meant to give.

There was nothing he could do about his costume, of course, but he could control his own reaction. So he tried his best not to let his disgust show on his face. The outfit was ridiculous, of course, but somewhere out there in the audience was someone who loved it, someone who probably thought it was the next great thing. And even if no one else liked it, their stylists had worked hard on it. If they thought that he _didn't_ like it, they might do something to sabotage his interview or something.

That's what _he_ would do.

Of course, if he was a stylist, he wouldn't have to worry about anything once the Games actually began. All their work – if one could even call it that – came before the Games. They were supposed to convince the audience that their tributes were worth paying attention to. But so far…

So far, they'd done nothing but create a silly costume. Yes, they could have done better, but it could also have been worse. Outer districts were starting to be known for ridiculous costumes during the tribute parade. In a few days, the batteries would be long forgotten, and all that would matter was how well he was performing in the Games. And there … well, there he didn't intend to disappoint.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

As far as chariot outfits went, their stylists could certainly have done worse. Maybe a pair of mechanics' uniforms weren't the most original or flashy idea they could have come up with, but they were certainly better than District Five's batteries. Certainly better than District Three's … whatever they were supposed to be. Sure, they weren't mermaids like District Four, but there were only so many things their stylists could have done with an industry like District Six's. It wasn't as if she would have come up with anything better.

Of course, it was only an unwritten rule that the outfits were supposed to reflect the district's industry. The first year, everyone had simply made the shiniest outfits they could, but the audience had trouble remembering which tributes had worn which outfits. So the next year, they'd decided to keep it simple. Fish-related costumes for District Four. Trees for Seven. Miners for Twelve. Maybe it wasn't the most creative option, but at least the sponsors would remember that mechanics were from District Six.

Finch glanced over at Zion, who didn't seem too thrilled about their costumes. Of course, he didn't seem too thrilled about _anything._ Not that she was excited, of course – not by the _reason_ they were here. But there was something almost … _almost_ exciting about the atmosphere. The crowd's energy was almost contagious. Almost enough to make her forget that the reason she was standing here in a skintight blue mechanic's uniform with smudges all over and a wrench in her hand was because she'd been chosen by her own district – by their own mechanics and railway operators and factory workers – to participate in a fight to the death.

Almost. It was almost enough to make her forget. But not quite. Not for long. Because a few chariots ahead of them, the Careers were basking in the applause and cheers of the crowd. Applause for what the audience knew they would be capable of once they were in the arena. They knew what to expect from the Career districts. But districts like Six…

Finch clenched her fists. She would just have to surprise them. They wouldn't be expecting much from her or Zion. They wouldn't be expecting either of them to make a splash, to leave an impression. And certainly their outfits weren't much help in that department. But once they were in the arena, would anyone really remember what they'd worn during the parade?

Probably not. How many of the previous years' outfits could she really remember? One year had been a train wreck … literally. They had fashioned the chariot to look like a train that had just crashed. But aside from that particularly bad year, she couldn't remember any of Six's outfits. As far as the other districts, the only ones that stood out from the last ten years were the really good ones … or the really bad ones. This year's were more mediocre, and maybe that was a good thing.

Finch waved a little at the audience as they neared the end of the parade. The audience probably wouldn't remember them or their outfits. But that meant that the Careers probably wouldn't, either. They wouldn't have any reason to think twice about District Six. And that was a good thing – for now, at least. For now, it was better to avoid their attention. Better not to do anything that might give the impression that they would make a good target. Maybe it meant she wouldn't get a lot of sponsors – right away, at least – but sponsors were no help to tributes who got themselves targeted by the Careers. And that was something she didn't want to do.

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14  
** **District Seven**

Apparently, their stylists had heard the rumors. Narra pulled her robe a little tighter as a breeze blew through the chariot. Their outfits were reminiscent of old stories of witches living in the woods. They'd strewn her hair about the top of her robe and given her a silly hat, along with a basket full of what they probably thought were magic herbs. In truth, they were nothing more than silly flowers, but she hadn't told the stylists that.

She hadn't told Basil, either – not everything. Hadn't told him the reason that the stylists had decided to dress them up like an old witch and wizard. He probably thought they'd simply run out of ideas and had decided to go for anything vaguely related to a forest. And any other year, that wouldn't have been too far off. Last year's tributes had been wood nymphs. The year before that, the stylists had simply dressed them up as trees.

There were plenty of other forest-related outfits they could have gone with. The fact that they'd decided on magic … it was too much to be a coincidence. Someone must have told them the reason a fourteen-year-old had been voted into the Games. It hadn't been her, but rumors only spread. Maybe someone had told Filbert before they'd left District Seven. Maybe the Peacekeepers had been interviewing people after they'd cast their votes. Somehow, the whispers must have made their way to the Capitol. And if their stylists knew that the rest of the district had labeled her and her family as witches, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Capitol found out.

"Hey," Basil whispered, giving her a nudge with the crooked stick they'd given him. They probably thought it looked like a wizard's staff. "You okay?"

Narra looked up, startled. He didn't seem the least bit bothered by the silly outfit. In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying herself. Narra shook her head, glancing down at the stick in her own hand – smaller, wand-like. "I … Yeah, I'm okay."

No. No, she wasn't okay. But there was no point in telling him what was wrong. He had his own troubles to worry about. She'd assumed that he'd been voted into the Games for a similar reason. Obviously, no one really thought he was a wizard, but the district must have thought there was something wrong with him if they'd voted to send a scrawny little fifteen-year-old into the Games. It certainly hadn't been because they thought he had a chance of winning.

But none of that seemed to bother him. He waved his staff a little, and a few sparks flew out. "Neat!" Basil exclaimed. "The stylists must have programmed them to do that. See if your wand does the same thing!"

Reluctantly, Narra gave her wand a little wave. Sure enough, a few sparks shot out of the end. "Perfect!" Basil grinned, giving his staff another wave – this time towards the crowd. A few cheers rose from the audience, and Basil waved again. And again. They were cheering – but only for what they _thought_ the two of them were. What their stylists had dressed them up as. They were cheering for a pair of magical beings that didn't really exist – not for who the pair of them really were.

But Basil didn't seem to care. Maybe he was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all. Maybe he wished he really _was_ someone else. That he really _was_ a magical wizard. But that was just a story. A fairy tale. And this … it was all for show.

But maybe – just _maybe_ – that was good enough for now. Narra gave her wand another wave, and the audience erupted into cheers. Cheers for a witch and wizard who only existed in their imaginations. But maybe that would be enough for the audience to remember them.

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16  
** **District Eight**

"I want to know who decided that spiders had anything to do with District Eight," Dusty grumbled as she adjusted one of the legs on the costume their stylists had dressed her in. In the chariot in front of them, the younger pair from Seven certainly seemed to be having fun. But he and Dusty were stuck in silly spider costumes, with their arms and legs serving as four of the spider's legs. The other four had been attached to the sides of their costumes, and large hoods had been pulled over their heads, covered in far too many spider-like eyes.

"Actually, it makes sense," Selwyn admitted, gesturing to the loom in front of them. "You see, there's this old story about a weaver named Arachne who challenged the goddess Athena to a weaving contest. Weaving – district eight. That's the connection."

"So why spiders?"

"Because Athena was outraged when Arachne won the contest, and turned her into the first spider. Or, at least, that's how the story goes."

Selwyn couldn't be certain because of her hood, but he was pretty certain Dusty was rolling her eyes. "Great. That's just what we need to be compared to: a pesky spider who challenged the gods and was punished for it. Still, gotta give the stylists points for a pretty apt metaphor for the Games."

Selwyn couldn't help a smile. He hadn't thought of it like that. He'd assumed that the weaving would be enough to connect the spiders to District Eight. But Dusty was right; Arachne had been a rebel of sorts, and she had been punished for it. Come to think of it, that was probably why the Capitol had allowed that particular story to be included in the list of books that district citizens were still allowed to own.

"So where'd you hear that story?" Dusty asked.

Selwyn shrugged. "Read it."

"I don't remember reading it in school. Sure, I dropped out a few years early, but still…"

Of course she had. "I read it on my own."

Dusty chuckled. "Good for you."

"Not much of a reader?"

"I prefer to get my stories from real live people, thanks."

"And what kind of stories would those be?"

Dusty shrugged. "Outrageous ones, mostly. Webber loves a tall tale."

"Webber?" She had to be kidding.

"Yeah. I went to live with him when I left my — ohhhhh," she realized. "Webber. Webs. Spiders. That's strange."

That was one word for it. "Webber's not his real name, though," Dusty continued. "We just call him that because…" She trailed off.

"Because what?"

"Because customers tend to get caught in his webs," Dusty shrugged. "He's a businessman."

"Sure."

"All right, he runs a bar. People drink, they smoke, they gamble. They relax. There's little enough chance to do that the rest of the time."

Maybe she was right about that. There usually wasn't much chance to relax in District Eight. Or anywhere in Panem. Anywhere besides the Capitol, of course. But had that had something to do with Dusty getting voted into the Games? Maybe. Maybe that didn't really matter anymore. Whatever she'd done, they were in the same spot now. And only one of them could be going home. And if he wanted it to be him, he couldn't afford to care about why she was here – or about _her_. Whatever had landed her in the Games wasn't his problem. She certainly wasn't concerned about why _he_ was here.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

She still couldn't quite believe they were really here. Brindle glared out at the crowd as the chariot rolled along. Down the street, past hundreds of thousands of idiots who were cheering for them. Cheering for the fact that they'd been brought here to die. To kill. To become the monsters the Capitol wanted to think they were.

Brindle clenched her fists. If the Capitol wanted to believe that they were monsters, _fine_. Maybe it was time they started living up to the name. For years, she and her siblings had been planning. Plotting against the Capitol. Biding their time, waiting for the right moment. If these Games weren't the right moment, nothing was.

But first she had to get _to_ the Games, and that meant tolerating these stupid outfits. She and Ludwig were covered in fabric that was probably supposed to look like wheat, but really just looked like a massive golden-brown mess. Curling up and down the wheat were several long, thin snakes. Or, at least, they were designed to _look_ like snakes. She wasn't sure what they were made out of, and she wasn't particularly eager to find out. They certainly looked life-like.

Snakes in the grass. Obviously the Capitol had some idea of what sort of tributes they were dealing with in District Nine. It hadn't taken long for her to recognize Ludwig from the descriptions of him on the posters around District Nine. And she had clearly been well-known enough to get voted in. She and her siblings had never particularly tried to keep their opinions to themselves. And it was about to cost her.

But it would cost the Capitol more.

That was what she kept trying to tell herself, at least. That once she was in the Games, she would be able to do _something_ to give them a bloody nose. But what? What did she really hope to accomplish in the arena? And if the Capitol got the impression that she was going to try something, what was to stop them from simply detonating her pedestal and blowing her up before the Games even started?

No, she would have to be careful. Until she was in the arena, she couldn't afford to give them any hint of her true intentions. And that meant playing along – for now, at least. It didn't have to mean smiling and waving, but she had to at least _tolerate_ the ridiculous outfit.

So she tried to scowl a little less, but that didn't really help. They were just another pair of tributes in silly outfits. Spiders. Snakes. That was what the Capitol thought of the districts, after all – that they were just pests waiting to be exterminated.

Brindle clenched her fists. She wished she could do the same thing to them. Dress them up in silly outfits. Parade them in front of people who hated them, who degraded them, who saw them as less than human. Force _them_ to fight to the death. The thought almost made her smile.

Almost. But it was nothing more than a wish. A dream. The idea was so far out of reach, it was hard to even imagine. But, for a moment, it made her smile. And that was good enough for her.

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

The outfits were good enough for him. Maybe shepherds weren't the most original costume idea for District Ten, but it was certainly better than snakes or spiders. And his stylists had even been able to adjust his outfit so that it would fit him properly. The sleeves were the right length, and he hadn't had to cuff the ends of the pants. That alone made it a better fit than most of his clothes back home.

Barnabas took a deep breath as the crowd grew closer and closer. The outfits weren't the problem. Even the crowd wasn't the problem. It was what they were here to _do_ that was bothering him – and was clearly bothering Elle, as well. It was bad enough that the twenty-four of them were about to be forced to fight to the death, but dressing it up like a celebration only made it worse.

That was the point, of course. Ten years ago, when the tribute parade had first been introduced, the Capitol had clearly known exactly what they were doing. They were taking an event that had originally been meant as a punishment, and they were turning it into a sport. Since then, Career training had skyrocketed. Sponsors during the Games had become more common. The audience was getting involved in a way they hadn't been able to during the earlier Games.

And the more involved they were, the less they actually cared about the _tributes_. It was an odd paradox, but the more the Games became about the outfits and the costumes and the celebrations, the less the tributes' lives seemed to matter. They were the ones whose lives were on the line, but the announcers would spend the evening talking about how amazing – or how amazingly _terrible_ – the costumes were.

Never mind that twenty-three of them would be dead in a few short weeks. Never mind their families back home who would be heartbroken. All that mattered was the silly costumes.

Elle gave him a nudge, and Barnabas looked up, startled. What did she expect him to do? Smile and wave at the audience? They weren't Careers. In fact, they were about as far from Careers as tributes could expect to get. But she was still watching him expectantly, waiting to see what he would do.

 _Fine_.

He gave the crowd a little wave. Then another. To his surprise, a few cheers rose from the audience. Maybe they were excited, after Eight and Nine, to finally see tributes do something besides stand there. Maybe they thought were just being polite. Maybe they just thought the pair of them looked funny.

Whatever the reason, Elle smiled a little at the applause, and Barnabas couldn't help smiling back. Maybe it didn't matter why they were applauding. If it made Elle feel a little more comfortable, a little more appreciated, then maybe that was a good thing. There would be little enough of that in the days ahead of them. Maybe it was best to take a good thing where they could get it.

Barnabas raised his shepherd's crook towards the audience, and they erupted into applause again. Elle reached down and took his other hand, giving it a squeeze as she raised her own crook towards the sky. The audience kept cheering. And maybe, for tonight, that was good enough. Maybe for tonight – just for tonight – _they_ were good enough.

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18  
** **District Eleven**

They probably thought they were being funny. Apple was still fighting to keep from rolling her eyes as the chariots slowed to a stop at the end of the parade. Their chariot had been filled to the brim with apples. She and Ethan had been dressed as a pair of apple pickers, complete with little baskets full of apples. At least no one in the Capitol would forget her name, but still, this was a bit ridiculous.

But it also meant they had something to eat. Apple reached down and picked another piece of fruit as the chariot pulled up alongside the pair from District Ten. The younger girl and the even shorter boy had fared a little better as far as costumes went. Maybe shepherds weren't the most interesting outfit, but at least the Capitol wasn't making fun of their names.

Not that she knew of, at least. Come to think of it, she wasn't even sure what their names _were_. Apple's face grew warm as the boy turned towards her. What _was_ his name? She'd certainly heard it while she was watching the reapings. It was a little thing, maybe, but twenty-three of them would be dead in a few days. The least she could do was find out the others' names.

The boy grinned as Apple held up an apple. He nodded, and she tossed it to him. The throw was a little off, but his district partner caught it and handed it to him. Apple tossed another one to the girl. "Thanks!" the boy called back. "Apple, right?"

Was he trying to be funny? She nodded, hoping he would answer her question. "I'm Barnabas. This is Elle."

Apple nodded to her district partner. "This is Ethan."

Before the conversation could get any farther, however, the audience quieted as the president appeared on the balcony above them. Apple immediately fell silent. The Capitol would be watching for any hint of disrespect. The others turned their attention to the balcony, as well, though Barnabas was still munching on the apple she'd thrown him.

"Welcome, tributes, to the first Quarter Quell!" President Montgomery Chaplin announced. "We honor your courage and your sacrifice on this twenty-fifth anniversary of the Games." The crowd began to roar. Twenty-five years. Twenty-three children dead each year. That was…

Too many. It was far too many. And this year, there would be twenty-three more. But there was nothing they could do about it. The rest of the president's speech was lost in the applause of the crowd. Apple glanced around at her fellow tributes. Some were still grinning and waving at the audience. But most of them … most of them simply looked tired. Frightened. Worried about what the next few days might bring.

Apple turned to Ethan as the crowds began to leave. Together, the pair of them climbed out of their chariot. Whatever was about to happen, there wasn't anything more they could do about it tonight. All they could do was get a good night's rest and hope that they would be ready for tomorrow.

Without another word, the pair of them headed for the nearest building, following the crowd of tributes in front of them. A few of them lingered behind, starting to form larger groups. The Careers were already beginning to group together, probably discussing strategy. How they were going to go about killing the rest of the tributes.

Apple shook the thought from her head. That was what they would all be doing, soon enough. They would all be trying to survive, and that meant they would all be trying to kill each other. If the Careers realized that sooner than the other tributes, maybe that simply meant they were ahead of the curve. Maybe … just maybe … they had the right idea.

* * *

 **Derek Overholt, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Sienna had the right idea. She was already starting to peel off bits of the silly coal miner's outfit they'd dressed her in as they headed for the building, following the rest of the tributes. Ever since the tribute parade had started, they'd dressed District Twelve in coal miners' outfits.

Or, at least, what they _thought_ coal miners' outfits looked like. Sienna had been quick to point out every detail they'd gotten wrong, much to their stylists' annoyance. Sure, they'd taken a few creative liberties, but it wasn't as if any of _them_ had actually been inside a coal mine.

Of course, that was what was really bothering Sienna. Not the silliness of the outfit – the fact that the people who had designed it had never even bothered to _look_ at what they were trying to imitate. The fact that they hadn't tried to find out anything about the lives of the people who were about to die for their entertainment. It was cruel. It was terrible.

But there was nothing they could do to change it. For all Sienna's complaining, the parade had gone on exactly as they had all known it would. No one had given District Twelve a second thought, just like they'd come to expect. No one expected anything to come out of District Twelve.

But that would make it all the more surprising – all the more _satisfying_ – when a tribute from Twelve _did_ finally manage to survive. And if he wanted it to be him, then he couldn't afford to waste time fretting over some silly chariot outfit.

Derek hurried to catch up with the pair from Eleven. He'd seen them tossing apples and chatting with District Ten's tributes right before the president's speech. Did that mean they were looking for allies? If they were, then surely he would make a better prospect than a fourteen-year-old and a boy who was even smaller.

"Hi," he managed to gasp out as he caught up with them. The girl turned first, surprised, but then they both slowed down a little. "Derek Overholt. District Twelve."

"Apple Oxon," the girl replied.

"Ethan Vetch," added the boy. "I wish I could say it was good to meet you, but—"

"But it's not exactly good to meet anyone in the Games," Derek finished. "I get it. Just thought I'd introduce myself. I like your outfits, by the way."

Apple rolled her eyes, and Ethan chuckled a little as the three of them entered the building and headed for the elevator. "Going up?" Ethan asked.

Derek nodded. "Apparently we're on the top." He held the elevator door for Sienna, who had finally caught up. "Sienna, this is Apple and Ethan."

Sienna nodded a little, maybe confused about why he was introducing them. About why any of them would want to get to know each other when most of them were going to be dead soon, anyway. But even if that was inevitably how the Games were going to end, it wouldn't hurt to have a little help early on. And these two … they seemed nice enough.

Of course, _nice_ didn't mean a thing once they were actually in the arena. He should be looking for people who would be _useful._ People who would be able to help him survive. People who knew what they were doing.

Soon, the elevator dinged, and the pair from Eleven left. Derek flashed Sienna a grin. Even if Apple and Ethan didn't end up as his allies, it didn't hurt to be friendly. The pair might remember him in the arena. Eventually, it was every man for himself, but given the choice between attacking a tribute he didn't know and one he had at least spoken to, he knew which one he would pick. If anyone else felt the same way, then it was worth the effort to at least introduce himself. It was a little thing, but it was a little thing that might save his life.


	18. Training Day 1: Trouble in Paradise

**Training Day One  
** **Trouble in Paradise**

* * *

 **Clementine Acres, 18  
** **District One**

She was beginning to wish she hadn't said anything. Clementine leaned back against the pillar behind her, her arms crossed over her chest. "Look, all I meant was, what are we going to learn at these stations in the next few days that we haven't learned in years of training? I just figured there might be something better we could do with our time."

Mora, the girl from Four, rolled her eyes. "Like what?"

Clementine glanced around at her fellow Careers. It was too late to take it back now, so she might as well voice her idea. "I say we split up. Position ourselves strategically around the room at various stations, trade off every now and then. It might give us the chance to overhear something – or make the other tributes less likely to visit those particular stations."

Kekoa shifted uncomfortably. "You want us to … scare them away and keep them from training."

Clementine shrugged. "We can't stop them from training entirely. But if we can steer them away from certain stations, or at least keep a close eye on who's learning what, give them the impression that we're watching—"

"Intimidate them," Argent interrupted flatly.

"Well, yes," Clementine admitted. She wouldn't have used _that_ word; she'd been trying to put it a bit more diplomatically. But Argent had the right idea.

"I like it," Argent agreed. Valkyrie nodded along. Mora and Vino were harder to read, but Kekoa still looked uncomfortable, and Argent was beginning to pick up on it. "Problem?" he asked pointedly.

"That doesn't seem…" He trailed off a little, as if unsure of the word he'd wanted to use.

Argent scoffed. "What? Fair?"

"Sporting," Kekoa countered.

"We're not here to be 'sporting.'" Argent practically spat the last word at Kekoa. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm here to _win_."

Vino nodded. "He's right. Playing dirty is part of the Games. If you don't have the stomach for that, then—"

"Then _what_?" Kekoa took a step towards the other boys.

"Then maybe it's better that we all find out now." Clementine took a step closer to Argent, positioning herself opposite Kekoa. "It sounds like we have a plan. Are you in or out?"

Immediately, Valkyrie and Mora turned to join Clementine. Vino hesitated only a moment before shuffling over to their side. Kekoa glanced from one of them to the other, then back again before shaking his head decisively. "Then I guess I'm out."

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18  
** **District One**

He hadn't expected the other boy to fold quite so quickly, but maybe Clementine was right. Maybe it was better to find out now whether or not he was really Career material. Better than counting on him to hold his own only to have him turn chicken during the bloodbath or something. Sure, now they were down to five, but that was better than having a sixth member of the pack who wasn't really up to snuff.

Argent nodded to himself as the pair from Two and the girl from Four split up, each heading to a separate area of the training room. Clementine lingered for a moment once the others were out of earshot. "Thanks for backing my play."

Argent scoffed. "It was the right play."

"Still … thanks. I owe you one."

Argent scowled. What did she want him to say? He hadn't backed her up out of any sense of district loyalty, or even because he'd thought her plan was particularly good. But it _had_ been a good way to find out which of their group didn't have a stomach for what had to be done. Still, she didn't owe him anything.

And she certainly didn't mean it. She knew better than to think that he would trust her to return the favor. Once they were in the Games, favors meant nothing. Districts meant nothing. If it came down to him or her, she would choose herself. Just like he would choose his own life over hers every time. Both of them had been training too long for this to consider anything else.

When he didn't respond, Clementine shrugged and headed off for another side of the room, leaving him alone in the center. The boy from Two had positioned himself near the obstacle course, while the girl had chosen a spot between the edible plants and insects sections. The girl from Four had claimed a spot near the spears and tridents, but also close to the knot-tying and net-building stations. Predictable, but probably a good strategy, as well. Having a tribute from Four who obviously knew what she was doing nearby might deter anyone hoping to learn the basics of any of those stations.

Which had been the whole point, really. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Clementine at the first aid station, already chatting away with the instructor, probably trying to monopolize his time. He smirked as he headed for the knife and dagger section – probably the first choice for any inexperienced tribute hoping to learn an easier weapon. If nothing else, it would at least be good practice.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18  
** **District Four**

If nothing else, at least he knew where the other Careers stood. Mags had suggested on the train that joining the Career pack might not be the best fit for him, and if the pair from One were in charge – as they certainly seemed to be – then she was probably right. And if he was going to split off from the pack, maybe it was better that he'd done it _now_ , while he still had time to look for other options.

And there certainly didn't seem to be a shortage of other choices. Almost everyone had the potential to be a contender this year. The girl from Nine was already hacking away at a dummy with a dagger, completely ignoring both Argent standing behind her and the boy from Nine watching from farther away. The little girl from Seven was settled in at the edible plants station, giving a few tips to the boy from Twelve. The tributes from Ten were already almost finished with a halfway decent shelter. The boy from Five was swinging away with a mace, decimating dummy after dummy.

But it was the pair from Eleven that caught his eye, over by the spear station. The girl was doing her best to throw the weapon at a dummy, but was clearly distracted by Mora snickering in the background. The boy glared at Kekoa as he joined them. "What? Your district partner wasn't having enough fun on her own? Did you come to laugh, too?"

Kekoa held up his hands. "Look, if you don't want any help…"

The girl perked up a little at the suggestion. "You want to help us?"

Kekoa lifted a nearby spear. "Just a few quick pointers, if you don't mind. See, it's not about the arm. You need to put your whole body into it. Anchor yourself like this…" He helped the girl adjust her pose a little. "Firm, but not too stiff. Then use your _whole_ body to gain momentum, and…" He let the spear fly, piercing the dummy through the chest. "Now you try."

The girl took a deep breath. Turned. Let the spear fly. It fell to the left of the target, but much closer than she had been. Kekoa nodded. "Good. Now this time, don't hold your breath. Let it out when you release the spear." He turned to the boy. "You want to try?"

The boy nodded eagerly. Kekoa handed him a spear, ignoring Mora, who was still rolling her eyes in the background. These two had potential. They'd gone for a weapon they clearly had no experience with. They _wanted_ to learn, to make the most of their three days of training. And what was more, they were already a pretty good team.

* * *

 **Ethan Vetch, 18  
** **District Eleven**

They made a pretty good team; there was no denying that. Ethan let out a triumphant _whoop_ as his spear finally connected with a dummy. Apple had made three of her last five throws. They were definitely getting better. The boy from Four clapped him on the back as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Very nice. Are you sure you've never done this before?"

Ethan couldn't help a chuckle. "Well, I had a good teacher, but you know, I didn't catch his name."

The other boy smiled. "Kekoa. And you are…?"

"Ethan. This is Apple."

"Apple."

Apple sighed. "Yes, like the fruit."

Kekoa nodded. "Or the tree. A Koa is a kind of tree, too."

"Really?"

Kekoa smiled. "It also means 'warrior.'"

Ethan shook his head. "You Careers aren't exactly subtle, are you."

He'd meant it as a joke, but Kekoa's expression turned serious. "Career training hadn't begun in District Four when I was born. It's a name that's been passed down through my family. It's meant for a warrior who bravely battles the hardships of life and the demons inside himself." After a moment, his smile returned. "And, I suppose, the sort that wins the Games, too."

"Is that why you wanted to be picked this year?" Apple asked.

Kekoa shook his head. "What makes you think I wanted to be picked?"

Apple opened her mouth to respond, but thought better of it. Ethan shrugged. "I guess we just assumed there were enough people in Career districts who would _want_ to be chosen, they wouldn't bother picking someone who didn't want it."

"That's what I assumed, too," Kekoa admitted. "But I guess my district had other ideas."

"I'm sorry," Ethan apologized. "Sorry they picked you, I mean. If you didn't want it."

Kekoa shrugged it off. "I'm sure you didn't, either – both of you. But your district obviously thinks you two have a good chance."

Ethan nodded. That was what he'd been telling himself ever since the reaping. That their district must have picked them because they had a good chance. It couldn't be that so many people _wanted_ them to die.

But it had been easier to tell himself that on the train. Before he'd seen the other tributes – the other tributes who _also_ had a good chance, whose districts thought _they_ were the best choice. And the Careers who he had assumed would be practically _fighting_ for the right to be chosen.

Except…

Except Kekoa hadn't. He'd just gotten unlucky. Just like them. Ethan glanced at Apple, who nodded a little. Maybe agreeing with what he was about to ask. Ethan turned to Kekoa. "Would you like to join us?"

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18  
** **District Eleven**

"Join you?" Kekoa asked, as if a bit confused. Apple shook her head. She'd thought it had been fairly clear what Ethan had meant.

But Ethan clarified just in case. "Our alliance. We're no Careers, but— what's so funny?" Kekoa had practically burst out laughing. _Shit_. What if this had been a joke all along? What if he'd only been pretending to help them as … what? A prank? A good laugh for his fellow Careers?

But Kekoa smiled and clapped Ethan on the back. "Nothing. It's just that … well, I was going to ask if _you_ wanted to join _me_. But I don't suppose it matters which of us does the joining, really. Yes. Yes, I'll join your alliance, if you'll have me. It's just…"

"What?" Apple asked.

"The other Careers. I walked out on them earlier, so I assume I'll be their first target during the Games. I'm afraid that rather puts you in the line of fire. But if that's a risk you're willing to take…"

"It is," Ethan answered quickly. Maybe a little _too_ quickly. "I think it's a risk that's worth it. I just learned more about spear-throwing from you in an hour than I would have picked up in three days on my own. We owe you for that, at the very least."

Kekoa smiled. "Don't worry. We'll pick a different station next, and I'm sure you'll have a chance to settle that score. What do you say we check out the edible plants station? Maybe they have some apples."

Apple gave him a punch on the shoulder. "Or maybe some koa. Can you eat that?"

"Actually, yes, the seed of the tree is a legume – like a bean or a pea. It's edible, but not particularly filling. Mostly, the plant is used for medicinal purposes."

Apple turned to Ethan, who shrugged. "You asked."

She had. "Let's get some lunch first," Apple suggested, surprised by how hungry she already was. The morning seemed to have passed so quickly. That meant they only had two and a half days of training left. And then…

No. No, she could worry about that later. Right now, she was doing pretty well. She had two allies – one of whom was a Career who clearly knew what he was doing. Maybe that made them a target, but he was also a valuable asset. And, if anything, the other Careers would go after _him_ , not her and Ethan. When it came down to it, _he_ was the target, not them. The other Careers wouldn't care, of course, if they took a couple of tributes from Eleven down too, but given the choice, she knew who _she_ would choose to deal with first.

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

"He's recruiting," Mora muttered from across the table, her eye still on her district partner, who was chatting with the pair from Eleven on the other side of the room.

Clementine shrugged. "Well, of course he is. Did you think he was just going to go it alone once he left us?"

"Actually, the thought crossed my mind," Mora admitted. "It's what Hudson did."

Vino shrugged. "Hudson wasn't a Career."

Valkyrie said nothing. She wasn't a Career, either. Not really. Not in any way that counted. The others – they wanted to be here. They were _eager_ to be here. They had campaigned, probably _begged_ for votes in order to get here. She hadn't wanted this.

But she was here.

And she had to stay. As much as part of her had wanted to join Kekoa when he'd left, she'd known that she couldn't. Not if she wanted the Capitol to treat her like a Career. Tributes from Four could get away with leaving the pack. Hell, only their most recent Victor was really a Career. But if a tribute from Two left … that would be different. She couldn't take that risk.

Mora shifted in her seat. "Maybe we should think about…"

Argent perked up, suddenly interested in the conversation. "What? Doing the same thing? Recruiting?"

Mora nodded. "I'm just saying, he's up to three now. What if he adds a few more? There are only five of us."

"We have more training," Clementine pointed out.

"Strength in numbers," Vino countered. "I think Mora's right. What do you think, Val?"

Valkyrie cringed. She wished he would stop calling her that. "Depends," she answered vaguely. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Honestly, I had my eye on the pair from Eleven," Vino admitted. "But Kekoa made a move first. Maybe the boy from Nine? The girl from Six? The boy from Five?"

Valkyrie glanced around the tables. All three were reasonable choices. Older. Stronger. And all three seemed to be sitting alone.

Clementine nodded, leaning forward a little. "Well, if you're all determined to invite someone else … the boy from Five has my vote."

Mora raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Process of elimination. The girl from Nine's a rebel; that much was obvious from the reaping. If Nine is voting in rebels, there's a good chance he's got some dirt on him, too. We don't need that. The girl from Six looks pretty tough, but she spent most of the morning at the knife station. Didn't branch out at all. The boy from Five was swinging weapons around all morning. Worked up a sweat and kept going." She shrugged. "I'd say he wants the spot."

* * *

 **Isaiah 'Snap' Shelby, 18  
** **District Five**

He was well into his second sword-fighting lesson of the day before the Careers finally decided he was worth talking to. After spending the morning swinging a mace around, he'd figured that maybe a flashier weapon would get their attention, but, as it turned out, fighting an actual _person_ with a sword was a lot trickier than just smashing a few dummies to pieces with a mace. The first time around, the trainer had practically wiped the floor with him, and he'd gone to cool off by clubbing a few dummies to pieces. He wasn't doing much better this time, but apparently the fact that he'd kept trying counted for something.

"Move your feet!" called the boy from Two as Snap swung again, barely dodging the trainer's blow. The edges of the swords had been blunted, of course, but getting hit still stung. Snap did as he was told, stepping to the side and shifting his weight before swinging at the trainer, who quickly blocked his blow.

A few more swings, and the trainer smacked him in the rear. "Damn it," Snap muttered, stepping off to the side to catch his breath.

"If this were a real fight, of course, I wouldn't be aiming for your tush," the trainer assured him. "I'd have gone for the back of your legs. A slice right across here…" he gestured to his own leg. "...and you're down for good."

"Or a good blow to the kneecaps," Snap muttered. Knowing _where_ to hit wasn't the problem. It was actually getting a blow in that was hard, if the other person was fighting back. He wasn't used to that. The shopkeepers and traders and such in District Five were easier to intimidate. He usually didn't even have to lay a hand on them. And when he did, they certainly weren't trying to hit him with a sword.

"Not bad for a first-timer," the girl from One noted, tossing him a towel.

Snap wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Thanks. But you didn't bring the whole pack over here just to tell me that." He nodded at the rest of the group. "You're looking for a replacement for the one who walked out on you, and you're wondering if I fit the bill."

The girl smirked. "Direct. I like that. What's your name?"

"Isaiah, but most folks call me Snap."

"I'm Clementine. This is Argent, Vino, Valkyrie, and Mora. Are you in?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Your footwork needs work, but you've got a lot of raw talent and the right attitude." She held out her hand. "So what do you say?"

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

"Frakking sellout," Brindle mumbled as the boy from Five shook hands with the Career girl. "Just look at him. Like a dog, begging to tag along with his masters. It's pathetic. And the pair from Eleven – they really think they can trust that kid from Four. You'd never catch me teaming up with a Career – even one who got kicked out of the pack. Am I right?"

Behind her, Ludwig chuckled a little. "Are you talking to me?"

Brindle shrugged. "You've been tailing me all day. Figured I should at least say hello. Then maybe you'll go away."

"Is that what you want? For me to go away?"

Brindle rolled her eyes. "I don't care what you do. If you want to waste your time watching me instead of actually training, that's your problem. But if you think just following someone around is a good way to get an alliance—"

"What makes you think I want an alliance?"

"Well, it's either that or you're trying to figure out the best way to kill me. Right now, my money's on the second."

"That's a wager you'd win."

"You're wasting your time."

"Why's that?"

"Because every idiot who was paying attention during the reaping is going to be tripping over themselves trying to kill me. You'll have to wait your turn."

"I'm a patient man."

"I'm not. Don't be surprised if I kill you first."

A smile crept onto Ludwig's face. "I'll have fun watching you try."

"I don't doubt it." She turned back to the spear she was fashioning out of one of the branches from the shelter-building station. Maybe it wasn't the sturdiest weapon, but it was good practice. With the sort of target she had on her back, she wouldn't be able to risk rushing into the bloodbath, and she couldn't count on getting any weapons from sponsors. Most likely, she'd have to make do with whatever she could find.

"So I take it you won't be throwing your hat into the ring, then," Ludwig reasoned.

"What ring?"

"Unless the boy from Four is an idiot, he'll realize that the Careers will make him their first target. If he wants to have a chance of fending them off, he'll need numbers of his own. He'll be looking for more recruits."

Brindle scowled. "Let him. The more their two alliances grow, the more of a target they'll make for each other. Let them fight each other, whittle each other down, and give the rest of us a chance." She shook her head. "Good riddance to all of them."

* * *

 **And there's our first day of training. I realize this one was a bit heavily focused on the Career alliance(s), but never fear. Everyone gets a POV during one of the training days, and this takes care of most of the Careers. Here's our current state of alliances...**

 **Careers (more or less):** Argent, Clementine, Vino, Valkyrie, Mora, Snap

 **"Anti-Careers":** Kekoa, Apple, Ethan

 **Just leave me alone:** Brindle

 **Stalking his district partner:** Ludwig

 **Not officially in any alliance (or lack thereof) yet:** Hesper, Ari, Sam, Finch, Zion, Narra, Basil, Dusty, Selwyn, Elle, Barnabas, Sienna, Derek


	19. Training Day 2: In or Out

**Training Day Two  
** **In or Out**

* * *

 **Trigger Warning:** Mentions of abuse in Basil's POV.

* * *

 **Derek Overholt, 17  
** **District Twelve**

It was all Derek could do not to burst out laughing. But the boy from Four, Kekoa, actually didn't seem to be joking. "You're serious," Derek realized after a moment. "You want _us_ to join you?" He gestured to himself and Sienna. They had been working with the girl from Seven, Narra, at the fire-building station when Kekoa had approached them, along with the pair from Eleven. It wasn't really clear whether Narra had been included in the invitation to join their group, but at this point, he wouldn't be surprised if Kekoa had been inviting her, as well. He seemed almost desperate to find someone who would join him.

Which immediately made Derek wonder _why_. "Why us?" he asked when Kekoa only nodded in response to his first question.

Kekoa gestured to Ethan and Apple. "We figured that a pair of tributes from Twelve might have some useful skills that we're lacking."

Sienna _did_ burst out laughing at that. "Save it. What 'useful skills' is it that you think we have? We've been sitting over here building fires, sorting plants, and building shelters. You really think _that's_ going to help you take on the Career pack."

"No one said anything about taking on—"

"You didn't have to," Narra cut in. "When the Careers saw _you_ had found some allies, they recruited the boy from Five to join _their_ pack. Now you're trying to do the same – build up your own alliance, add a few extra bodies in case their pack decides to make _you_ their first target. Maybe you're just hoping to deter them from attacking, but two equal-sized packs … the Gamemakers will have no choice but to force you to confront each other, if you're not prepared to do it on your own."

Kekoa opened his mouth as if to say something, but apparently thought better of it. "I'll take that as a no, then."

Derek nodded. "Yeah, that's a 'no.' But thanks for asking."

Kekoa shook his head as he, Apple, and Ethan left. Derek turned to Sienna and Narra. "Well, just because we don't want to join _their_ alliance doesn't mean we can't have our own. What do you say?"

Narra immediately nodded in agreement, but Sienna took a step back from the fire they'd been building. "I…"

Derek nodded. He could take a hint. "If you're not interested, I'm not offended. I just thought we should … well, get it out in the open."

* * *

 **Sienna Ledger, 18  
** **District Twelve**

There wasn't really a nice way to say it. They had both been so nice. _Too_ nice. She wanted to stay, to make their little alliance official. They'd worked pretty well together the day before. Both Derek and Narra would make good allies. She could trust them. She _liked_ them.

And that was the problem.

At the end of the day, she didn't _want_ allies that she liked. She didn't _want_ allies that she would get attached to. Too many tributes – especially tributes from Twelve – made that mistake. They joined up with people they liked, people they trusted, rather than people who could help them. And they ended up paying for it later on.

So she didn't say anything. She simply turned and left. Maybe she should have done that sooner. Maybe it would have been _easier_ if she'd done it sooner. She'd spent the day before telling herself that just because she was at the same station as her district partner didn't _mean_ they were allies. That she could leave any time she wanted.

She still didn't want to.

"Right choice," came a voice from behind her. The girl from Eight couldn't help a smile. Beside her, her district partner was engaged in a dagger lesson with one of the trainers, and the girl held a blade herself. "They seem pretty nice. But nice is deadly in the Games." She nodded towards her district partner. "Come join us for a while?"

Sienna hesitated. She'd just _left_ one alliance. Was the girl offering another? Maybe. Or maybe she just wanted to see what she was made of. She'd spent the previous day at the survival stations; maybe it was time to branch out a little. If she wanted to survive the Games, after all, it wasn't all about _survival._ Eventually, she would have to kill. So it would be good to get in some practice with a real weapon while she could.

Sienna picked up a dagger. The weapon felt surprisingly light in her hands. Compared to the pickax she was used to using in the mines, this wasn't all that heavy. Maybe that was the point. Not everything was about brute force. Not everything was about being able to overpower an opponent, or even having more allies. Maybe choosing the _right_ weapon – or the right allies – would be enough.

* * *

 **Dustine 'Dusty' Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

The girl was obviously used to swinging something heavier. Probably a pickaxe; she certainly looked like she'd done some work in the mines. Dusty glanced over at Selwyn, who nodded a little. The pair of them had spent the first day of training working together, moving from station to station, before coming to an unspoken agreement that they worked pretty well together … but that they could also use someone who knew their way around a weapon. Someone who had the brute strength that the pair of them, frankly, lacked.

But only one person. More than that would make them a target for the Careers pack. Or maybe it was _two_ Career packs now. Whatever was going on with the Careers, she wanted to stay as far away from it as possible. The more the two packs decided to hash it out between themselves, the better for the rest of them.

But they couldn't count on that protecting them forever. It was only a matter of time before one of the packs emerged victorious and decided to hunt down the rest of the tributes. When that happened, she would have a better chance if she wasn't alone. And as helpful as Selwyn might be when it came to useless trivia like why their stylists had dressed them as spiders, it would also be nice to have someone who could help them _physically_. But not someone strong enough to make them a target. The boy from Four had been trying to recruit the pair from Twelve, but the main Career pack hadn't bothered. Which meant that he hadn't necessarily been looking for strength; he was just looking for more bodies.

Dusty turned her attention back to her weapon. That was probably what she would be doing if she were in his position. Looking for another tribute or two to use as a shield between herself and the main Career pack. The fact that Sienna had the sense to turn him down meant that she'd figured out what he was trying to do – or that she had good instincts. Either one of those things would be useful. Now it was just a matter of convincing her to join _them_ , instead.

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16  
** **District Eight**

Convincing Sienna to join them turned out to be easier than he'd thought. After watching his fight with the trainer – and then taking a swing at sparring with the trainer herself – Sienna was apparently convinced that the two of them were worth her time.

Or maybe she realized there weren't a whole lot of options left. The pair from Eleven had joined the boy from Four, and the boy from Five had joined up with the main Career pack. Sienna's district partner seemed to be working with the girl from Seven, but she had apparently already turned them down. Neither of the tributes from Nine seemed particularly interested in finding an alliance, and the pair from Ten had kept to themselves. The options for alliances were quickly dwindling; maybe she was just happy to find a pair of tributes who seemed at least mostly competent.

Competent, certainly, was the best they could hope for at the moment. After spending most of the morning at the dagger station, he was starting to get a feel for the weapon, but eventually they would have to move on. Once they were in the arena, their group certainly wouldn't have first pick when it came to what sort of weapons they would have access to; they would probably have to make do with whatever they could snatch quickly from the cornucopia, or whatever they could find later on.

Selwyn turned to Dusty as the three of them headed for the lunch tables. "So what do you think? Will the fact that there are two Career packs make it easier or harder to grab anything at the beginning of the Games?"

"That depends," Dusty answered vaguely.

"On what?" Sienna asked.

Dusty shrugged. "On whether the two groups decide to target each other during the bloodbath, or whether they temporarily truce in order to take out some of the other tributes – some of _us_. Without knowing which strategy they plan on taking, our best bet is to just run."

Sienna nodded agreeably. "Sounds like a plan to me."

It was hard to argue with that. "Any way of getting more information about what they might be planning?"

Dusty shrugged. "Short of someone in either pack deciding to spill the beans during the interviews or something, not likely." A smile crept over her face. "But there may be something else we can do."

* * *

 **Basil Larch, 15  
** **District Seven**

There didn't seem to be anything he could do to get away from the other boy. Basil shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the boy from Six took a seat a little ways away and across the table from him. The boy had been shadowing him ever since the day before, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out _why_. Did the boy think he was a threat? Had he done something wrong? He couldn't remember making fun of District Six's silly chariot outfits or anything. So why wouldn't the boy leave him alone?

Basil drummed his fingers on the table as the boy scooted a little closer. Then a little closer. "Can I help you?" Basil asked at last.

The boy practically jumped, startled, as if he hadn't realized that Basil had noticed him. "It's Basil, right?

Basil nodded. "And you are…?"

"Zion. District Six. Is anyone sitting here?" He gestured to a spot directly across from Basil.

Basil shrugged. "I guess you are now."

Zion chuckled awkwardly, scooting over into the place he'd indicated. "I guess so. So … District Seven, right?"

"Yeah."

"I saw you over at the fire-starting station."

Basil nodded. "And the edible plants station. And the obstacle course."

"You noticed."

"You're hard to miss."

Zion's face flushed, and he immediately moved his arms off the table. It hadn't taken Basil long to notice the scars. Basil stuffed a roll into his mouth. "So what's your story?"

"My story?"

"Yeah. You trying to escape something?"

"What?"

"The reason you got voted into this quell – were you trying to escape something?"

"Were _you_?"

Basil shrugged. What hard would it do now? He was already going into the Games. It wouldn't hurt to finally tell _someone_ the reason why. "My stepfather." He rolled up his sleeves to the shoulders, revealing the bruises he'd always tried so hard to hide. The scars there was no point in hiding now. "I've got a few of my own."

"Mine came from a fire," Zion admitted, rolling up his sleeves a little. "My brother and I got caught in a factory fire. I got out, but he…" He looked away. "He didn't."

Basil nodded. "That's rough. Did you start the fire or something?"

Zion raised an eyebrow. "No. Why?"

Basil shrugged. "Wasn't sure why else your district would vote you in. No offense, but it clearly wasn't because they thought you could beat the other tributes in a fistfight."

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16  
** **District Six**

Zion fell silent. He didn't want to explain. Didn't want to have to explain to this kid _why_ his district had voted him in. Why his parents had kicked him out of the house. No, he hadn't started the fire, but he had left his little brother to die. He had run for his life without thinking twice.

He wouldn't make the same mistake this time.

But he didn't want to tell Basil that was the reason he'd been following him. The boy might think it was … disturbing. Zion had been quite surprised himself by how much the boy resembled his brother Lucas. The floppy hair. The toothy smile. The way he always seemed to be fidgeting with something. Zion rolled his sleeves back down. He couldn't do anything to save Lucas now. Nothing he could do would bring his brother back to life. But if he could save this boy…

If. That was still a long shot. The pair of them weren't exactly the strongest tributes in the arena. But maybe if he could protect Basil – maybe if he died a hero, the way he _should_ have four years ago – maybe then, his parents would forgive him. Maybe his district would forgive him. Maybe.

Maybe. But right now, maybe was all he had. It was the best he could hope for. Because if _he_ came home, if he survived at the cost of twenty-three other tributes' lives, then nothing would change. He would still be the coward who put his own survival first. He would still be the boy who let others die so that he could live.

He didn't want to be that boy anymore. After four years, he was tired of it. He was tired of the shame. He was tired of the looks he got from anyone who knew. Anyone who knew what he had done. What he _hadn't_ done. He hadn't tried to save his brother.

He would do better this time.

"Do you want…?" Zion started to ask. Basil looked up expectantly. Eagerly. He couldn't back out now. "Do you want to be allies?"

Basil couldn't help a smile. "I wasn't really expecting to find any. But yeah. I'd … I'd like that. Allies." He held out his hand.

Zion nodded as he shook it. "Allies."

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14  
** **District Seven**

She was glad Basil had found someone. Narra smiled as she and Derek got up from the table and headed back to the training area. Everything seemed to be working out. Basil had found an ally. Sienna had teamed up with the pair from Eight. She and Derek had spent the better part of the last two days together. Maybe he wasn't the most experienced tribute, but neither was she. At least the pair of them wouldn't be a target.

"Maybe we should try some of the weapons," Derek suggested as they approached the stations. They'd spent most of their time at the survival stations, but maybe he was right. It wasn't as if she was going to learn anything more about plants in the next day and a half than she'd learned from years of living in District Seven.

"What did you have in mind?" Narra asked.

Derek shrugged. "Why don't you pick?"

"Might I suggest the knife station," offered a voice from behind them. Narra turned to see the boy from Three. "It seems like a reasonable place to start."

"Why's that?" Derek asked.

The boy shrugged. "Versatility. You can use a knife to fight, but you can also use it to cut up meat. You can throw it, in a pinch – if you feel like taking your chances. You can use it to start a fire. And it's easier to conceal than, say, a sword."

All of those were good points. "I take it you're headed in that direction?" Narra asked.

"As a matter of fact, I was. Care to join me?"

Derek nodded. "Sure. The more, the merrier."

The three of them headed for the knife station, where the girl from Two was already throwing knives at one of the dummies. Probably hoping to discourage anyone from trying the same station. And it seemed to be working; she hadn't seen much of a crowd at any of the stations the Careers had decided to settle down at. Best to avoid their attention.

But the boy from Three didn't seem to mind. "Excuse me," he mumbled as he edged his way past the girl from Two and over to where the trainer was waiting. "You look like you could use something to do."

The trainer chuckled. "You're telling me. She already knows what she's doing." He jerked his thumb towards the girl from Two. "So what can I help you with?"

* * *

 **Arirang 'Ari' Zeno, 17  
** **District Three**

Sure enough, the trainer seemed grateful to finally have _someone_ to teach. The girl from Seven and the boy from Twelve quickly joined him. He hadn't realized just how many different _kinds_ of knives there were. There _were_ knives that were good for throwing, the trainer explained, but only ones that were balanced _just_ right. Trying to throw just any old knife could leave an opponent with little more than a scratch – and leave the thrower without a weapon at all.

"And I'm not just saying this because of your inexperience," the trainer assured him. "I'd say the same thing to a Career. Unless you're absolutely certain – one _hundred_ percent certain – that you'll hit your target precisely, don't bother throwing your weapon. Don't throw it if it's dark. Don't throw it if your target is moving. Because even if you manage to _hit_ them, if that blow doesn't _kill_ them, you've lost valuable time _and_ handed them a weapon – something you can't afford to do unless you've got a couple to spare."

"Makes sense," Ari agreed, and Derek nodded along.

Narra looked a bit more reluctant. "So you can't think of any situation where you'd prefer to throw a knife?"

The trainer smiled a little. "There are always exceptions, my dear. The question is, can _you_ think of one?"

Narra thought for a moment. "Let's say it's the end of the Games, and you're already incapacitated. You're trapped under something, or you're too injured to get up. If your opponent has a longer weapon, like a spear, or even a sword…"

"Fair enough," the trainer agreed. "Your chances would be pretty slim either way, but yes, you'd probably be better off throwing a knife and taking a chance rather than waiting for your opponent to get close enough to stab them instead. But if you _do_ find yourself in that situation, wait for them to get close enough for you to aim well. Anyone else?"

"If your opponent has a bow," Ari offered.

The trainer nodded. "Sure, if you think they know how to use it. If they don't seem confident with it, you're probably better off just charging towards them; usually, that'll be enough to throw off someone's aim. But if they know what they're doing, yes, you might be better off throwing. Maybe." He smiled. "Like I said, there are always exceptions. But in general, once you've got your hands on a weapon, don't let it go."

* * *

 **Our alliances so far...**

 **Careers:** Argent, Clementine, Vino, Valkyrie, Mora, Snap

 **Unsuccessfully trying to recruit more Anti-Careers:** Kekoa, Apple, Ethan

 **Bonding over our tragic backstories:** Zion, Basil

 **Definitely plotting something:** Dusty, Selwyn, Sienna

 **"The more the merrier":** Ari, Narra, Derek

 **Just leave me alone:** Brindle

 **Still stalking:** Ludwig

 **Not (officially) in any alliance (or lack thereof) yet, will be sorted out next chapter:** Hesper, Sam, Finch, Elle, Barnabas


	20. Training Day 3: Loose Ends

**Trigger Warning:** Brief suicidal thoughts in Sam's POV.

* * *

 **Training Day Three  
** **Loose Ends**

* * *

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18  
** **District Four**

At least Kekoa didn't seem to be having much luck in his search for allies. After he'd teamed up with the pair from Eleven, she'd been worried that he might have been trying to recruit enough tributes to rival the main Career pack. But so far, no one else seemed to have taken him up on his offer.

Not for lack of effort on his part. The day before, he'd approached the pair from Twelve, but that apparently hadn't gone his way. Now he was talking to the girl from Six, who was listening politely but didn't seem particularly interested. Not that Mora could really blame her for that. Joining up with a Career who left the pack would immediately paint a target on her back. Either the pair from Eleven hadn't realized that, or they thought the benefits would outweigh the risks.

Mora shook her head and turned her attention back to the fire she was trying to start. After spending the first two days showing off at the spear, trident, and net-building stations, she'd decided she might as well practice something she _didn't_ already know like the back of her hand. There wasn't usually much call for starting fires in District Four. If by chance a fire _did_ start on a ship, the first thing to do was to put it _out_.

Even in the Games, knowing how to start a fire wasn't really as important as the trainers always tried to make it out to be. Sure, tributes from District Seven were always good at being able to rub sticks together and get a spark, but there were usually matches in the cornucopia, which the Careers had practically unlimited access to. The survival stations were really only useful for tributes who _didn't_ have access to supplies.

Tributes like the girl from Three, who had spent a good part of the last half hour at the same station, pathetically struggling to light the same meager fire, without much success. Mora had half a mind to tell the girl to move along and find something better to do with her time, but she held her tongue. The less experience her opponents had, after all, the better. Mora's flame caught quickly, to the trainer's delight. Mora shrugged and moved on to another station. There were better things to learn.

* * *

 **Hesper Coventry, 18  
** **District Three**

As soon as the girl from Four was gone, Hesper turned her attention back to her fire, gradually removing the damp wood that had been stifling it, slowly giving the flames a chance to catch. Soon, it was burning brightly. "Yes!" the trainer beamed, giving her an over-exaggerated high-five. To any of the Careers who happened to be watching, it would look like he had finally had to step in and give her a hand. "Nice work," the trainer muttered under his breath.

"Thanks," Hesper whispered back. She'd spent the last few days moving from survival station to survival station, lingering on the edges, picking up what she could, doing her best to look inept while the Careers were around. Sure enough, none of them had tried to recruit her into their groups. Not that she'd ever expected them to, but it was good to know that she probably wasn't even on their radar.

Apparently, however, she'd caught someone else's attention. "Not bad," Ari admitted from behind her. "You've certainly got them fooled."

Hesper smirked. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Can't you see it took me an hour to get this fire started?"

"I underestimated you," Ari conceded. "It won't happen again."

"Good to know. So what's your next move? Tell the Careers I actually know what I'm doing?"

"Do you?"

"No more than you, I'd expect."

Ari rolled his eyes. "Less, I imagine. But don't worry. Your secret's safe with me, such as it is. I don't suppose you'd be interested in…"

"In what?"

Ari glanced at the girl from Seven and the boy from Twelve beside him. The girl nodded. "In joining us."

Hesper nearly burst out laughing. _Now_ they wanted her as an ally? Why? Because she'd managed to hide what few skills she'd picked up? "Thanks, but I'll pass." The words left her mouth before she really had time to think about them, but, to her surprise, she was certain. This was the best choice. She'd been doing everything possible to _avoid_ attention. Joining these three would put her in the largest alliance in the arena, aside from the Careers. That was exactly the opposite of avoiding attention.

"I expected that," Ari agreed. "Well … good luck." He held out his hand.

Hesper couldn't help a smile as she shook it. "Good luck."

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

"Looks like she said no," Finch observed, watching as the boys from Three and Twelve and the girl from Seven left the girl from Three at the fire-building station alone.

Beside her, Sam scoffed. "Of course she said no. There are already enough big groups in the arena. Why paint a target on her back by making their group even bigger? There are three of them right now – that's certainly big enough to get attention."

"And sponsors," Finch pointed out. "If the three of them last long enough—"

"You think they will?"

"You never know."

Sam chuckled wryly. "What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"I saw you turn down the smaller Career group earlier. You looking for allies?"

"Are you offering?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Are _you_?"

Finch hesitated. The pair of them had ended up at quite a few of the same stations over the last few days. Maybe Sam was no Career, but it wasn't as if _she_ was, either. And if she _wanted_ allies, she was quickly running out of options. But something kept holding her back. She wasn't sure she _wanted_ allies. Turning down the Careers had been an easy choice. But Sam…

Could she really trust her? They'd spent quite a bit of time together, but they hadn't really _talked._ What did she really know about Sam? What did _any_ of them really know about each other? They only thing they really knew for sure was that they'd all been voted in by their districts, but they didn't really have any idea about _why_.

Maybe there _was_ no why. They'd voted for Sam, yes, but they'd also voted for _her_. It wasn't as if _she'd_ done anything awful, so why should she assume Sam had? Why should she assume _any_ of them had? Maybe Sam was just unlucky – just like her.

Finch nodded. "I guess I am. Offering, that is. What do you think?"

Sam eyed her curiously and, for a moment, Finch couldn't help wondering if she'd made a mistake. Had she offered too quickly? Would that just make Sam suspicious? There wasn't really any _reason_ to be suspicious, though. And it _was_ the third day of training, after all. If they didn't make it official now…

Finally, Sam nodded. "Yes."

"Yes?" Just like that? Yes?

"Why not?"

* * *

 **Samantha 'San' Hacka, 16  
** **District Five**

Why not? It wasn't as if she was planning on sticking around for long once they were in the arena. She was going to die, anyway – that was the plan – so she might as well be of use to _someone_ in the time between now and then. "Why not?" Sam repeated as the pair of them headed to the tables for lunch. "You seem like a decent person."

Finch got a chuckle out of that. "Thanks, I guess. You, too."

"You don't know anything about me."

Finch shrugged. "I could say the same thing to you."

"You could," Sam agreed.

"So where do you want to start?"

"Start?"

"You're right. We don't know anything about each other. What do you want to know?"

Sam hesitated. She hadn't really _wanted_ to know anything. She'd just meant to point out that Finch didn't know anything about _her_ ; she hadn't meant it as an offer to get to know each other better. But now she had to come up with _something_. "Got any brothers or sisters?"

Finch shook her head. "Just me and my parents. You?"

"Me and my parents," Sam echoed.

"Huh."

"What?"

"You think maybe that's why they voted for us? Maybe they figured there aren't as many people to miss us?"

Sam shrugged. "Sure, if that makes you feel better." It was as good an explanation as any. As good as they were going to get, anyway.

"It wasn't supposed to make you feel better," Finch pointed out. "I was just wondering if maybe … maybe that was what they were thinking."

"I doubt they were thinking," Sam reasoned. "Probably just trying to vote for someone who didn't matter to them. Someone they weren't connected to."

"Not a lot of friends?" Finch guessed.

Sam smirked. "What gave it away?"

"Well, I guess no one was going to vote for the district sweetheart or anything."

"No one except the Career districts," Sam pointed out, chuckling a little. "Still can't quite believe they asked you to join them."

"Well, it wasn't really the _Careers_ ," Finch reminded her. "Just the boy from Four and the pair from Eleven. Still … yeah, they must have been getting pretty desperate. Maybe they'll go for the pair from Ten next."

Sam chuckled. The little girl and the dwarf had settled down at the first aid station about halfway through the first day, and they didn't seem to have budged at all since. She shook her head. "I don't think they're _that_ desperate."

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18  
** **District Two**

Kekoa had to be getting pretty desperate by now. Vino glanced across the room as the rest of the Careers settled down at the table to join him. All around the room, groups of tributes were settling down to eat. Or, at least, _most_ of them were in a group. Kekoa had teamed up with the pair from Eleven. The pair from Ten certainly seemed to be working together. The girl from Twelve and the pair from Eight were sitting together. The boy from Three seemed to be working with the girl from Seven and the boy from Twelve. The boy from Seven, meanwhile, had teamed up with the boy from Six, while the girl from Six seemed to be working with the girl from Five. And the boy from Five … well, that brought him back to the Careers.

All in all, that left three tributes without an alliance to call their own. The girl from Three seemed to have turned down one of the larger alliances, while each of the tributes from Nine seemed content to go their separate ways. If they were working together, they certainly weren't letting on. The boy had made a point of staying near the girl, but she didn't seem interested in talking to him at all, or even looking at him as they ate their lunch.

The other Careers, meanwhile, were content to eat together – and to share the latest information they'd picked up while they'd separated to keep track of different stations. "Kekoa seems to have struck out with anyone else," Mora reported. "I saw him ask the pair from Twelve – and the girl from Six. And there may well have been a few more that I didn't catch."

"Makes sense," Valkyrie agreed. "I'm surprised all of them turned him down."

Clementine shrugged. "I'm not. They have to realize that he's a target. A Career who leaves the pack is obviously one of the stronger contenders in the arena, so they have to know we'll be going after him."

"Will we?" Vino asked.

Argent nodded. "Is there a reason we shouldn't?"

Vino shrugged. "Just figured we might want to let him weed out the competition a little bit before going after him full force. The more tributes _he_ takes out while he's trying to avoid us, the better … right?"

Mora nodded a little – but hesitantly, as if she didn't want to give the impression that she wanted to go easy on him because he was her district partner. "We don't have to decide that right now," she pointed out. "We have no idea what things are going to be like once we're in the arena, or how prepared his allies might actually be. No point in deciding on a plan we don't know we'll be able to hold up once we're in the Games."

* * *

 **Ellery 'Elle' Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

Maybe there hadn't been much point in looking for anyone else. Elle settled back down at the first aid station with Barnabas once the two were finished with lunch. The trainer couldn't help a smile. "Back again?"

Elle nodded. They'd ventured out to other stations occasionally, but they were both getting pretty good at splinting bones and stitching up wounds. All on practice dummies, of course – and she hoped they wouldn't ever have to _use_ either of those skills – but it seemed like a more practical use of their time than slinging around a weapon that they didn't really have the strength for, anyway.

Besides, there were already plenty of tributes doing _that_. Plenty of tributes showing off the skills they had or frantically rushing around trying to learn new ones. A little of this and a little of that, but how much was really sinking in? Barnabas had drifted towards the first aid station early on the first day, and she had followed. They hadn't officially decided that they were allies, but neither of them had really made an effort to seek out anyone else.

She'd thought about it. A few times, really. But every time she did, her stomach started churning a little. What would she say? What _could_ she say? As soon as they heard her – as soon as she opened her mouth and started stuttering – would they immediately discount her? Assume that she was stuttering because she was afraid? If not, most of them would probably ignore her because of her age.

But the girl from Seven was fourteen, too. And _she_ had found allies. But finding other allies would mean leaving Barnabas … wouldn't it? Would they really find an ally who would want _both_ of them?

Elle felt Barnabas' hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Elle nodded quickly. "J-just thinking."

Barnabas nodded a little. "If you want to leave, I … I understand."

"L-leave?"

"And find someone else, I mean. If you're going to … well, now's probably the time to do it."

Elle shook her head. The time to do it would have been a day or two ago. Now … it was probably too late. There probably wasn't anyone who would take her.

Elle swallowed hard. That was just an excuse, really. An excuse for what she _really_ wanted to say. The truth. "I-I d-d-don't want t-to leave."

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

She wanted to stay. Barnabas breathed a sigh of relief, though he tried not to make it too obvious. He had hoped that she would stay. That she actually wanted to be allies, and hadn't just been spending time with him out of pity or some sense of district loyalty. But offering to let her go, giving her the chance to leave without feeling bad … it had seemed like the decent thing to do. "I just wanted to make sure … I didn't want you staying because you felt sorry for me."

Elle chuckled a little. A chuckle slowly turned to laughter. "What's so funny?" Barnabas asked.

"I-I-I—" Elle stammered before taking a moment to catch her breath. "I w-was hoping th-the same th-th-thing. That you d-didn't j-just feel s-s-sorry for m-me."

Barnabas couldn't help a chuckle. "We make quite a pair, don't we."

Elle nodded. "And th-they'll n-n-never see us c-coming."

Barnabas smiled and turned his attention back to the dummy he was stitching up. Right. They would never expect a fourteen-year-old and a dwarf to come out of the Games on top. And it probably wasn't going to happen. It certainly wasn't going to be _both_ of them coming out of the arena. And it probably wasn't going to be him. Not when he was smaller than all of the other tributes – and shorter than a good portion of the _weapons_ they were using, too. How was he supposed to use a spear or a sword when he couldn't even lift it properly?

No. No, he was probably dead. He'd made his peace with that. And chances were, Elle was as good as dead, too, once it came down to it. But there was still a part of him that was hoping that maybe – just maybe – she had a chance.

Maybe.

But even if she didn't – even if neither of them really had a chance – if these were going to be their last few days, he couldn't imagine a better way to spend their time in the arena. They could help each other. They could survive together. If nothing else, at least … at least they wouldn't be alone. That was something. And maybe … maybe that was good enough.

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

What he'd learned would have to be good enough. Ludwig hid a smile as he followed Brindle to the elevator that would take them back to their rooms. He had spent most of the last three days keeping a close watch on her, but he'd picked up other things along the way. Others might assume they were allies, but, really, she was a distraction. Anyone watching the pair of them would focus on her, allowing him to remain in the shadows. That was where he worked best, anyway.

If he'd decided to venture to the weapons stations himself, the temptation would have been too great. His familiarity with blood and death, the ease with which he could use a weapon, would have given him away. He couldn't afford that – not yet. He would get his chance once he was in the arena. Until then, he could afford to bide his time.

But the past three days hadn't been wasted. He'd been watching them – all of them. The Careers and the would-be Careers. The alliances that had been formed out of friendship, the ones made out of convenience, and the ones who thought they were manipulating each other. The clever ones and the idealistic ones. The ones who had the stomach for what was coming and the ones who would break. He had been watching them all.

Few of them had noticed him. Or if they had, they hadn't let on. There was a part of him that was growing impatient, that wanted the Games to begin. But there was another part – the part that usually won out – that was enjoying this. _Savoring_ it. The quiet thrill of stalking his prey, of observing safely from the distance, just waiting to give chase. Waiting for the right moment to spring.

He wouldn't have to wait much longer. Soon, the Games would begin, and then he would have some _real_ fun. His careful waiting would finally pay off. His prey would never see him coming.

Brindle probably assumed it would be her. That he would single her out first. He had been following her around, after all. But that had never been anything more than a diversion. No, he had his sights set on something even better. Brindle could wait for later – if she lasted long enough. He hoped she would. He wanted to be the one to do it, but if not … well, there were other options. That was the nice thing about the Games. He had twenty-three of them to choose from.

* * *

 **And that's it for training. Here's how alliances stand at the moment...**

 **Careers:** Argent, Clementine, Vino, Valkyrie, Mora, Snap

 **Anti-Careers:** Kekoa, Apple, Ethan

 **The More the Merrier:** Ari, Narra, Derek

 **Still Plotting:** Dusty, Selwyn, Sienna

 **Tragic Backstory Bros:** Zion, Basil

 **Why Not?** Sam, Finch

 **They'll Never See Us Coming:** Elle, Barnabas

 **Just Leave Me Alone:** Brindle

 **Hunting Prey:** Ludwig

 **Flying Under the Radar:** Hesper


	21. Private Sessions: Prove Yourself

**Private Gamemaker Sessions  
** **Prove Yourself**

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18  
** **District One**

The private sessions were just a formality, of course. Just another chance to show off. The Gamemakers already knew that the Careers would be lethal. It was just a matter of _how_ lethal, of how well he would stack up against the other Careers. The rest of the tributes – they didn't stand a chance. It was only a matter of time before the Games came down to him and some of his fellow Careers.

And he would have to be ready for that. But first he had to get through what little remained of their pre-Games training. He was starting to wish they could just get on with it. Starting to get impatient with the trainers and their smiles and congratulations. So as he chose a pair of short swords and charged at one of the available trainers, he figured he might as well let off some steam. "Come on, then!" he called to a second one, who chose a sword and joined them.

He fought them off easily. Even when a third trainer joined the other two, he held his own. Several times, he scored what would have been a killing blow if their blades hadn't been blunted. By the time their fifteen minutes were through, he was sweating and tired, but the trainers were certainly a little worse for the wear.

Smiling smugly, he replaced the swords and left the room, not even bothering to look back. He would get a high score – he was certain of that – but none of this really mattered. Once they were in the arena, high training scores wouldn't mean a thing. Once the Games began, the arena was the only thing that mattered. And once they ended…

Well, then he could figure out what to do with the rest of his life. He'd never really given it much thought. Training for the Games was what had given his life meaning. Without that, what did he have?

Argent shook the thought from his head. He would have time to figure that out later – after the Games. Right now, he had to focus. Right now, the Games were the only thing that mattered. He couldn't afford any distractions.

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14  
** **District Seven**

Narra gave the Gamemakers a little wave before settling down at the plant sorting station. None of them waved back. Not that she could really blame them for that; they'd already been sitting around for hours, watching tribute after tribute try their best to impress them. And for what? A number that would mean exactly nothing once they were actually in the Games. Sure, a high score could help attract sponsors, but it could also paint a target on her back. And while a low score could help her blend in and fly under the radar, once they were in the Games, she would eventually have to do _something_ impressive if she wanted to survive.

She had no delusions of getting a particularly high score, of course. Not when practically every tribute was older or stronger than her. Not when there were _two_ Career packs vying for the Capitol's attention. No, the best she could probably hope for was an average score, but that was no reason to do anything other than her best.

She hadn't even entertained the idea of demonstrating any weapons skills. Instead, she started sorting plants right away into four of the wooden bowls that were available by the stations. She put most of the edible ones in one bowl, and the inedible ones in the other. Occasionally, she tossed a root or leaf into the third bowl, and a few more into the fourth one. Finally, with about five minutes left, she headed over to the fire-starting station.

It didn't take long to get a fire started, or to heat the contents of the third bowl. She quickly crushed the contents of the fourth with a stick, then stirred up the heated mixture in the third bowl. She held it out towards the Gamemakers. "Care for a taste?"

That got a few raised eyebrows, and Narra smiled. Had they been watching closely enough? Everything she'd put in the third bowl had been perfectly harmless, of course … on its own. But together…

Finally, one of the younger assistants worked up the courage to take a step out onto the floor, took the spoon that Narra offered him, and cautiously ate a little of the mixture. Immediately, he started coughing. After a moment, he fell to his knees, gasping. The other Gamemakers sprang to their feet, but Narra calmly shoveled a little of the mixture from the fourth bowl into his mouth.

Almost instantly, he stopped coughing and staggered to his feet, back towards the other Gamemakers. The buzzer sounded, and Narra turned to go, but before she did, she could have sworn she saw the Head Gamemaker, Jairus Fritz, give her a little wink. Maybe she'd impressed them, after all.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

Brindle shook her head as Ludwig emerged from the training room, his forehead covered in sweat. Pathetic. Showing off for the Gamemakers like some sort of prized animals, eager to win their masters' approval. Well, _she_ certainly wasn't going to stoop to that. She was _better_ than that. She wasn't going to bow down and kiss the Capitol's feet, no matter what they threatened her with.

Besides, it wasn't as if a high training score would magically erase everyone's memory of what had happened at the reaping, or the reputation her family had in her district. The Capitol was never going to love her. Never going to support her. So there was no point in trying. They could give her a one, for all she cared. Maybe even a zero. Had anyone ever gotten a zero before?

Maybe not, but there was a first time for everything. "Brindle Young!" the voice called for what certainly wasn't the first time. Brindle slowly got to her feet and made her way into the room, glaring at the Gamemakers the whole time. Maybe she would be dead in a few days, but these fifteen minutes were _hers_. They would _have_ to listen to what she had to say.

Brindle caught the Head Gamemaker's gaze, planting her feet and crossing her arms over her chest. "Shame on you!" she began. "Shame on _all_ of you. It's not bad enough that you tear us away from our families and send us into an arena to kill each other. _No,_ you have to make a sport out of it. Make us perform, _beg,_ for your good graces so that we'll live another day. Well, I'm not going to—"

"I think that's quite enough of that." The Head Gamemaker raised his hand, cutting her off.

Brindle shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't. I've got fifteen minutes, and I'm going to use them. You have to—"

"I have to do _nothing_ of the sort." He pressed a button on the table, and, immediately, two men in uniforms entered the room. "Miss Young doesn't seem interested in using the rest of her time. Take her away."

"Coward!" Brindle shouted as the men grabbed her by the arms. "Are you really that afraid of what I might say?"

"Afraid?" Jairus chuckled as they dragged her from the room. "No. Just bored. Don't waste your breath, kid. And don't waste my time." That was the last she heard as the door closed behind her.

* * *

 **Derek Overholt, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Dead last. Of course District Twelve was dead last. Derek leaned back in his chair, waiting for Apple to emerge from the room. Would it really kill them to switch up the order a little bit? Maybe have the _Careers_ go last. They were probably the more interesting ones to watch, after all, so why not save those for when the Gamemakers would probably be desperate for something interesting?

Finally, the door opened, and Derek sprang to his feet even before his name was called. He quickly strode into the room and reached for the first weapon he saw – a wooden spear that was lying near the door. "Look, I don't want to waste your time," he offered with a smile. "Want to just give me a ten and get this over with?"

To his surprise, one of the Gamemakers actually chuckled. "You've got to earn it first, kid," he remarked, settling back in his chair as one of the trainers chose a wooden staff. Derek nodded a little, and then charged.

His first swing went wild. Too much momentum. The trainer easily dodged, then whirled around and tapped Derek on the leg with her staff. Not hard enough to hurt – not much, at least. But if this had been real…

If it had been real, he would be dead – or at least badly injured, which was as good as dead when it came to the Games. Injured tributes didn't last long. Derek grit his teeth and swung again, this time keeping a little more control over his weapon. Not enough to hit the trainer, but at least he was able to recover in time to dodge the trainer's next swing, and the next one.

Back and forth. Swing and dodge. Swing and block. Dodge again. Every so often, the trainer gave him a tap – a little reminder that she was going easy on him. That she could easily have killed him dozens of times by now if she'd really wanted to. Derek gasped for breath as he dodged again, then blocked the next blow. She was toying with him.

That was all the Capitol was really doing, in the end. Toying with them. Making a show out of the Games, making them think there was a chance, and then … and then twenty-three of them died anyway. Every time. Every year.

Derek was out of breath, sweating, and nearly ready to collapse when the buzzer finally sounded. It wasn't fair. It was just a game to them. To them, it was all in fun. But this … this was his life. And this wasn't fun anymore.

* * *

 **I apologize for the delay in updates. Sometimes real life has to come first, and this semester has been hectic.**

 **My original plan was to do eight POVs this chapter, then eight for the score reveal and eight for the interviews. But every time I tried to write it like that, it felt repetitive. So here's the layout for the rest of the pre-Games chapters. Including this one, six chapters: Private Gamemaker Sessions (this one), Training Score Reveal, Interviews, Night Before the Games, Morning of the Games, and the Launch. Four POVs each for a total of 24, so every tribute gets a POV somewhere. Since these chapters are a bit shorter, they should come fairly quickly now that I've figured out how this is going to work. (And, you know, now that summer is here.)**

 **Since alliances are pretty solidified and we're closer to the Games now, I've thrown another poll up on my profile - Who do you think is going to die in the bloodbath? This isn't likely to actually change who will die in the bloodbath, but I'm curious. I've set the voting limit at 23 because I didn't want to give away how many tributes are going to die in the bloodbath, but that doesn't mean that 23 of them will. (Shortest game ever, right?) So ... vote in that sometime before the actual bloodbath. Results of the favorite tribute poll are up on the website.**

 **It's good to be back.**

 **Cap'n**


	22. Training Score Reveal: By The Numbers

**Training Score Reveal  
** **By The Numbers**

* * *

 **Arirang 'Ari' Zeno, 17  
** **District Three**

"All right. Let's see what we've got." Titania plopped down between Ari and Hesper on the couch. Addison had already claimed a chair nearby, and Tobias was pacing back and forth behind them.

Ari shrugged. "Nothing to be nervous about, really. I probably got an average score, and Hesper's been trying to aim low all during training. The only question is whether the Gamemakers are going to play along and score her low or give her the score she really deserves."

Tobias shook his head. "That's _exactly_ what I'm nervous about."

"Nothing you can do about it now," Ari pointed out as the first face appeared on the screen, along with Talia's voice.

" _From District One, Argent Gaunt, with a score of ten. Clementine Acres, with a score of nine."_

Ari made a show of yawning. "Typical. No one expected anything else."

" _From District Two, Vino Bossini, with a score of nine. Valkyrie Kentwell, with a score of ten."_

More of the usual. Those would probably be the highest scores, unless District Four managed to tie them. Careers always scored high.

" _From District Three, Arirang Zeno, with a score of six."_ Pretty much what he'd expected. He hadn't had any delusions of ending up with anything above a seven or so, and it was probably better that he hadn't. High scores from non-Career districts attracted sponsors, yes, but they also attracted the Careers' attention. He had no intention of making a target of himself.

" _Hesper Coventry, with a score of four."_

Not bad. Not great, but not bad. A score like that probably wouldn't get her targeted – either as a threat or as a weakling. As long as she could make it out of the bloodbath, chances were good that the Careers would ignore her for a while.

That wasn't his problem, of course. After all, she would eventually have to die if he wanted to get home. But even though she wasn't his ally, she was still his district partner – and the better she did, the better their district looked in general. That _might_ help him, if only a little.

" _From District Four, Kekoa Palu, with a score of eight."_ Ari nodded. Not bad for a Career who'd decided to leave the pack. Not as good as Districts One and Two, but still a good enough score to convince the sponsors that he was Career material, even if he wasn't part of the pack. " _Mora Loch-Tiller, with a score of seven."_

Ari raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Wonder what she did wrong."

* * *

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18  
** **District Four**

"What did I do wrong?" Mora turned to Hudson, confused. "I did everything I was supposed to do!" She'd decimated every dummy in the room, all the while fighting off one of the trainers.

Hudson shrugged. "I wouldn't sweat it too much. I got a six, remember."

Mora glared. "Yeah, and you got _kicked out of the pack_!"

Hudson shook his head. "They won't do that this time. I was on my own once they kicked me out. They can't risk you teaming up with Kekoa and his bunch if they drop you. You'll just have to work a bit harder to prove yourself once the Games actually start. But don't do anything _stupid_. That's what the Gamemakers are trying to get you to do."

"What do you mean?"

"You and I both know that you deserved a higher score. They're trying to paint you as the weakest link the Career pack. Give everyone else someone to target, or maybe draw you out and make you do something reckless in order to get back in the others' good graces. Don't fall for it. Just do whatever you would have done if you'd gotten a nine or a ten."

Mora shook her head. "Easy for you to say. You're not going to be the one in the arena."

Hudson chuckled. "You're right. I just made it out of the arena eleven years ago. What do I know?"

"That was different!" Mora insisted. "You're not—"

"A Career," Hudson finished. "Don't you think I know that? You're right. It's different. _Every_ year is different. So you can either sit here feeling sorry for yourself and wondering what you did wrong, or you can get to work coming up with a plan."

Mora shook her head and turned her attention back to the screen in time to see Snap's face. " _From District Five, Isaiah Shelby, with a score of eight."_

"Great," Mora muttered. "Just great." Outscored by a kid from District Five, of all places.

Hudson shrugged. "Hey, at least you know he'll be a valuable member of the pack, right?"

"Right," Mora grumbled as the next face appeared.

" _Samantha Hacka, with a score of four."_ That was more like it. She just hoped there wouldn't be any more surprises.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

" _From District Six, Zion Harper, with a score of four."_ Finch winced sympathetically. That was three fours so far; the Gamemakers clearly weren't feeling particularly generous this year. One of the Careers had even gotten a seven. Zion didn't seem too bothered, however. In fact, he was barely looking at the screen. He was clearly distracted by something, but what?

" _Finch Ares, with a score of six."_

"Hey, not bad," Canton offered, clapping her on the back. "Just about the sort of score you want, really – especially this year."

Finch nodded. She'd known better than to expect anything too high – not with two Career packs and an abundance of tributes her age. A six was certainly good enough for her.

" _From District Seven, Basil Larch, with a score of three."_

"Ouch," Finch muttered. The Gamemakers certainly weren't pulling any punches. Not that a scrawny fifteen-year-old earning a three was much of a surprise, but he was still Zion's ally. Then again, Sam had only gotten a four, which was only a point higher.

"I'd be more worried if he _had_ gotten a high score," Elva admitted. "That would mean he's hiding something. At least a three isn't likely to draw attention, or make him more of a target than he already is because of his age."

" _Narra Tarot, with a score of six."_

Canton chuckled a little. "You were saying, Elva?"

Elva shrugged. "I was saying that younger tributes who get high scores are usually hiding something. Watch out for that one. A six might not seem that high, but for someone her age, someone her size— Stop laughing, Canton."

Canton shook his head, still chuckling. "You're paranoid."

Elva smirked. "It's not paranoia if people are actually trying to kill you."

" _From District Eight, Selwyn Trembal, with a score of five. Dustine Foreman, with a score of five."_

"Happy now?" Canton asked. "A pair of perfectly average scores."

"Which is probably exactly what they wanted," Finch pointed out.

Canton shook his head. "Look what you did. It's catching on."

" _From District Nine, Ludwig Ophiuchus, with a score of six. Brindle Young, with a score of one."_

"Wonder what she did," Canton muttered, but it wasn't hard to guess. Scores _that_ low usually meant that a tribute was completely hopeless, or that the Gamemakers had made them a target. Since she was physically one of the stronger tributes…

Finch breathed a small sigh of relief. As long as there was an _actual_ rebel for the Gamemakers to target, maybe that meant they wouldn't care about her grandfather. They certainly hadn't cared enough to give _her_ a low score. As long as she didn't do anything stupid, maybe she really did have a chance.

* * *

 **Ethan Vetch, 18  
** **District Eleven**

So far, things were going pretty well. Kekoa had gotten an eight, which was higher than his district partner, as well as tied with the boy they'd recruited into the Career pack in his place. There hadn't been many surprises from the other districts, aside from the girl from Nine scoring exceptionally low.

" _From District Ten, Barnabas Ford, with a score of two. Ellery Forster, with a score of three."_

Ethan shook his head, grateful Kekoa had decided to listen to him on that count. After striking out with pretty much every other tribute, Kekoa had only half-jokingly suggested that maybe they should try the pair from Ten. Now he was glad they hadn't.

" _From District Eleven, Apple Oxon, with a score of seven."_ Ethan clapped Apple on the back as their mentors nodded along. He just hoped he'd done as well. " _Ethan Vetch, with a score of seven."_

Apple gave him a friendly punch. "Nice. Tied, and only a point behind Kekoa. Looks like we'll make a pretty good team."

"Or a pretty good target," Nolan reminded them. "You two watch your backs in there."

Ethan shook his head. "Thanks. We would never have thought of that."

"Fair point," Nolan agreed. "I just meant, don't let it get to your head. A couple of sevens don't mean your little alliance is ready to take on the Careers or anything."

Ethan nodded. "Of course not. There are three of us. Six of them. Even if they weren't Careers, it's simple math."

"Good," Nolan nodded. "Keep reminding yourself of that."

" _From District Twelve, Derek Overholt, with a score of five. Sienna Ledger, with a score of five."_

"Third set of matching district pairs," Apple observed. "District Eight, us, then District Twelve. Think the Gamemakers got bored?"

"They do occasionally stop paying attention near the end," Isaac admitted. "Might account for yours and District Twelve's."

Ethan nodded, but that wasn't as comforting as Isaac had probably meant for it to sound. Had he and Apple scored high because they really deserved it, or had the Gamemakers simply tuned them out and decided to give them a slightly lower score than their Career ally? Had they really earned those sevens, or was it all for show?

Maybe it didn't matter. The sponsors wouldn't know the difference, and once they were in the Games, their scores wouldn't really matter anymore. It was what they were going to _do_ that would matter. He would just have to make that count.


	23. Interviews: Time to Shine

**Interviews  
** **Time to Shine**

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18  
** **District Two**

Things were going about as smoothly as he could have hoped. The four of them from One and Two had all gotten high training scores. Even Snap's eight and Mora's seven were certainly nothing to be too upset about. Once they were in the Games, the six of them would start things off with a bang, and it would only get better from there.

From the sound of the crowd as Career after Career took the stage, they seemed to agree. Clementine and Argent both received a warm round of applause, as did Valkyrie. By the time Vino took the stage, the crowd was already cheering. All he had to do was not ruin the moment – something he certainly had no intention of doing.

"So, Vino," Talia started, leaning forward a little in her chair as he took a seat near her. "It's been quite a night so far for your fellow Careers. High training scores, lots of confidence. Can you give us some hint about what might set you apart from the pack once you're in the arena?"

That was an interesting question to lead with, but Vino shrugged. "Well, obviously, I don't want to give away too much, but let's say my … style … is a bit different from my fellow Careers."

"Does that have something to do with why your district voted you in?"

Vino smiled. "I guess you could say that. I may not have been the most conventional choice, but my district clearly realized that I have what it takes to win. That I'm willing to do things that other people might not be."

"Surely you're not trying to tell me that the other Careers aren't willing to do what has to be done," Talia teased.

Vino laughed. "Oh, they're willing to kill, of course. But there are certain … behaviors that are expected when it comes to the Career pack. A certain mentality – a guide, almost – for how Careers are supposed to behave in the Games. I'm willing to break with that, if that's what it takes in order to survive. This isn't a normal year, after all. We shouldn't expect _anything_ in the Games to be normal. That includes the other tributes. And it includes me."

* * *

 **Isaiah 'Snap' Shelby, 18  
** **District Five**

"Vino was right earlier about it not being a normal year," Snap shrugged as Talia finally got to the point – the fact that the Careers had invited him to join the pack. "I mean, how often does a district get to pick the person who has the _best_ chance at the Games, rather than someone who happens to be unlucky enough to get picked before they're ready. I'm ready. My district knew it, and the Careers knew it, too. Hell, I'm surprised a few more of us didn't get asked to join the pack." He shrugged. "Less competition for me, I suppose."

"I suppose so," Talia agreed. "Do you think there's more pressure on you, as a bit of an outsider, to make a splash once the Games start? To earn the respect of the rest of the pack?"

Snap shrugged. "Of course there's pressure. But _more_ pressure? I'd say the fact that I'm about to be fighting for my life is pressure enough as it is. I don't think being part of the pack really adds to that. Besides, if there was any doubt that I could pull my own weight, I think my training score put that to rest."

Talia nodded. "An eight _is_ rather impressive."

"Better than one of my pack-mates," Snap pointed out. "If anything, I'd say there's more pressure on _her_ than on me." Mora had steered clear of the topic during her interview, but the tension had been there, bubbling just beneath the surface. "If you ask me, I'm not the one who has to prove myself."

"You have a point. What about the tributes from the outer districts? Anyone strike you as a particular threat?"

Snap leaned back in his chair. "Anyone and everyone, Talia. Obviously, a Career who leaves the pack is still something of a threat, and, like Kekoa told you, he's joined up with the pair from Eleven. They'll be a group to watch out for. But you can't really afford to write anyone off – _especially_ this year. Everyone got voted in for a reason, after all. Most districts wouldn't bother voting in someone who doesn't have a chance."

"Most?" She was fishing. Hoping for him to name a tribute or two who would be easy pickings once the Games started. But he wasn't going to play into that. Even the younger ones, even the ones who scored low – they could be hiding something.

Snap smiled. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow, won't we."

* * *

 **Dustine 'Dusty' Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

"I suppose we'll have to wait til tomorrow to find out for sure," Dusty answered vaguely. "But from what I hear, there might be some … surprises in store, especially from the Career packs."

Talia took the bait. "Career _packs_ ," she repeated. "Plural?"

Dusty shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure. The usual Careers, and then Kekoa's alliance. Both seem like pretty strong packs to me."

"Don't you think that comparison is a _little_ skewed?"

Dusty leaned forward a little. "Oh, so you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"I guess it makes sense the others would want to keep it under wraps. And, mind you, it's just a rumor." _Just_ a rumor. The Capitol went wild for rumors. All she had to do was hold out a little longer.

"I'm all ears."

"Oh, I really shouldn't," Dusty teased, leaning forward a little for effect.

"Just between us…" Talia coaxed.

Dusty winked towards the cameras. "You promise not to tell, right?"

Talia smirked. "Cross my heart. Right, everybody?"

"Well, rumor has it that _one_ of the Careers in the so-called Career pack isn't _actually_ planning to work with them in the arena. That as soon as the bloodbath starts … well, the others better watch their back."

"And this Career plans to team up with Kekoa, instead?"

"So they say," Dusty smirked, purposely leaving the 'they' vague.

Talia nodded along. "Any hints about who this mystery Career might be?"

"No telling." Dusty's voice was low now, almost a whisper. "I've heard a few different things. Maybe Mora, because he's her district partner. Maybe Snap never _really_ meant to join them in the first place. But _my_ money? It's on the girl from One."

"Clementine?" Talia asked, exactly as surprised as Dusty had been hoping she'd be. "Why her?"

"Think about it. Who won the last two Games?"

"Jerica and Jasmine."

"Twin sisters – both from District One. They've got quite a streak going. But streaks … well, they can get a bit predictable. Boring, almost. _Another_ girl from District One? What are the chances that _another_ girl from One would win for the third year in a row, right? So if she wants to have a chance, she's got to do something to set herself apart. Something _big_. Something to show she's not a typical Career." She shrugged. "I think that would do the trick."

The audience was still cheering as she left the stage, giving way to Selwyn, who was prepared to convince them that it was really the _boy_ from One who was about to turn traitor. To finish it off, Sienna was planning to insist it had to be one of the tributes from Two, who had to be tired of One winning by now. It was a bluff, of course. Every word. But it was one that the Capitol would eat up.

* * *

 **Ellery 'Elle' Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

 _Just take it slow. Keep your answers short. You'll be fine._ Barnabas' words rang in Elle's head as she took the stage. He was only trying to help her, she knew, but he had no idea how hard it was to say _anything_ with so many people watching her. _Breathe._ She took a seat next to Talia, who smiled reassuringly. "Hello, Elle. That's a very beautiful dress."

"Th-thanks."

"So, rumor has it that you're planning to work with your district partner in the arena."

Elle nodded. "N-not exactly a s-s-secret." They'd spent almost all of their time during training together. At this point, it would be a surprise if the other tributes _didn't_ know they were allies.

"I think most people would say you two are quite the underdogs this year," Talia prompted. "But I think you've got a few surprises in store. What do you say?"

"I w-wouldn't c-count us out y-yet," Elle agreed, doing her best to smile at the crowd. But they were already chuckling. She could feel her face growing redder. What was she supposed to do now? If they were already laughing at her, what would they do once she was actually in the arena?

"Of course not." Talia smiled warmly, trying to calm the audience down a little. But they were having none of it. The laughter grew louder and louder.

Elle crossed her arms, glaring at the audience. "Y-you th-th-think i-it's f-funny? W-well, I w-wish I c-could see h-h-how w-well _y-you_ would d-d-d-do in the G-games. J-just b-b-because I st-stutter d-doesn't m-m-mean I c-couldn't k-kill every one of y-you if I-I g-got the ch-chance."

The crowd fell silent. _Good._ Talia couldn't help a smile. "You've got a point there. This isn't a debate or a speech competition. It's a _fight_. And you seem like you've got some fight in you."

Elle nodded emphatically. "You b-better b-b-believe it."

Talia grinned. "Let's hear it for Elle Forster, everybody!" Cheers rose from the crowd – the very same crowd that had been laughing only a few minutes before. Maybe Capitolites really were as fickle as they had always seemed to be onscreen. That could be a good thing or a bad thing in the Games, but right now … right now, it just felt fake.

They weren't really cheering for her. They were cheering for the idea that she was ready to kill. Maybe even that she was _eager_ to kill. That was the only reason they were clapping right now – because they were convinced, for a moment, that she might give them what they wanted once she was in the arena. But was that really something she could do? Was it really something she _wanted_ to do?


	24. Night Before the Games: Watch Your Back

**Night Before the Games  
** **Watch Your Back**

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16  
** **District Eight**

As soon as he and Dusty were safely back in their room, Dusty let out a satisfied whoop. "You were awesome!" she beamed, clapping him on the back. "You actually had them believing that _Argent_ was going to turn on the Career pack. _Argent_."

Selwyn chuckled. "Me? How about you? They were eating out of your hand." Sienna's performance hadn't been half-bad, either. The Capitol loved drama, and nothing screamed 'drama' more than the idea that one of the Careers might actually be a traitor. Selwyn plopped down on the couch, content. "Let's hope it pays off tomorrow."

"Let's hope so," Woof agreed. "But don't get too cocky – either of you. The Careers aren't idiots, and you weren't exactly subtle during the interviews."

Dusty leaned forward against the table, munching on an apple. "You aren't _supposed_ to be subtle during the interviews."

Woof shook his head. "The point is, the Careers know exactly who started those rumors. You're on their radar now – maybe not as physical threats, but as tributes who might cause trouble. Just watch your backs."

Right. Like they hadn't been planning to watch their backs anyway. Selwyn nodded. Woof wasn't wrong, but he also wasn't saying anything that they hadn't already discussed. They'd known going off like that during the interviews was risky, but all three of them had agreed that it was a risk worth taking.

"So we get away from the bloodbath as quickly as we can," Selwyn reasoned. "And we hope the two packs do some damage to each other. Simple."

He knew better, of course. Nothing in the Games was simple, and that included getting away from the bloodbath unharmed. But Dusty nodded along, anyway. "Right. Simple."

It was a lie. An obvious lie. But it was a comforting lie. And for right now, that would have to do. Selwyn headed to his room to change into something more comfortable. Right now, the best thing to do was get some sleep, if he could. Morning would come all too soon.

Morning. In the morning, he would be in the arena, and everything they'd planned so far … Would it really pay off? Would the Careers really attack each other? Or would the whole thing fall apart? Selwyn turned over, closing his eyes. But he already knew sleeping wasn't going to be easy.

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

"It's not going to be easy to shake the Capitol's expectations," Cliff grumbled as he and Valkyrie settled onto the couch in one room. Vino and Clint were already holed up in another, probably doing the same thing – trying to figure out how to deal with what had happened during the interviews.

Valkyrie shook her head. "It's a load of horseshit – all of it. No one's planning to turn on the pack."

"No one _was_ planning to turn on the pack," Cliff corrected. "Now … now it may be too good an opportunity to resist."

"What do you mean?"

"If someone _does_ turn on the pack, that creates more interest from the Capitol. Their attention will immediately be on whoever turns and joins Kekoa, instead. It's a risk, of course – it means the attention of the rest of the Careers would also be on that person. But can you tell me you're absolutely sure no one in the Career pack is ready to take that risk?"

Valkyrie hesitated. The answer, of course, was no. She wasn't sure. There was no way she _could_ be sure. There was always some level of uncertainty to the Career pack, because the had all trained for the Games _knowing_ that any alliance could only be temporary. They _had_ to split up eventually. The pack always turned on each other eventually. _Always._

So the answer was no. There was no way she could be certain someone wouldn't try to jump the gun. There was no way _any_ of them could be sure. "So what are you saying?"

Cliff shrugged. "Nothing I wouldn't be saying anyway. Watch your back in there. Be careful. And if someone _does_ end up taking the bait and joining Kekoa … well, don't be too surprised."

Valkyrie nodded. "You don't think…"

"What?"

"You don't think _I_ should take the bait, do you?"

Cliff leaned back on the couch. "Do you _want_ to?"

"That's not what I asked. No one in the Capitol would really think it's going to be me. Yeah, that girl from Twelve hinted that it might be someone from Two, but she wasn't really as convincing as the other two. No one would really expect _me_ to be the one to turn on the pack. But does that mean that I shouldn't … or that I should?"

Cliff shook his head. "There's no right or wrong answer to that, Valkyrie – at least, not one that I would be able to give you ahead of time. It all depends on how everything else plays out. If you decide to, that's your call … but maybe give me a heads-up in the morning, one way or the other, so I can be ready to deal with the sponsors?"

Valkyrie nodded. The thought of turning on the pack made her uneasy, but … well, she hadn't _really_ wanted to be in the Career pack to begin with. She hadn't wanted to be in the _Games_ to begin with. What if this was her way out of that?

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18  
** **District Eleven**

"You don't really think anyone's going to take the bait, do you?" Apple asked as the four of them – she, Ethan, and their mentors Nolan and Isaac – settled down in their room. "No one's really going to turn on the pack and join us, are they?"

Ethan shook his head. "I doubt it. Those kids from Eight were probably just trying to stir the pot a little bit. But you have to admit, they did a good job of it."

Isaac didn't seem quite so sure. "I wouldn't underestimate what a few words in the right place can do. So it would probably help to be prepared. If one of the Careers _does_ turn tail and join you, have you talked to Kekoa about what you're going to do?"

Apple raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if one of the Careers tries to join your pack, are you going to let them?"

Apple shrugged. "Why not? That's what the Capitol would want, isn't it?"

"Probably," Nolan agreed. "But it would also make your little group even more of a target than you already are. It's bad enough that you already have _one_ Career who decided to leave the pack, but at least he had the courtesy to do so at the very start of training. Careers don't usually take kindly to other Careers who leave the pack."

Ethan shook his head. "Well, of course not. But, like you said, we've already got Kekoa with us. We're already a target. The Career pack – the real one – is probably already planning to come after us. We can't exactly make things worse than they already are."

Nolan nodded. "Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure you know what you're in for."

Apple couldn't help a smile. "I think we've got a pretty good idea."

"Everybody thinks that before the Games actually start," Isaac pointed out. "We all think we've got some idea of what to expect. We've watched the other Games, after all. We think we know how it goes. But once you're in the arena … It's different. You can't count on _anything_ following the pattern of previous Games. So watch your backs."

Nolan smirked. "Good advice. They definitely wouldn't have thought of that on their own."

Ethan chuckled. "Still, good to remember. We should probably get some sleep." He turned and headed for his room. "Good night, Apple."

Apple nodded distractedly, then turned to their mentors. "What if … what if _more_ than one Career decides to take the bait?"

Nolan cocked his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well, what if _more_ than one of them decides it's a good idea to turn on the pack?"

"I don't think that's particularly likely," Nolan pointed out. "But if it _does_ happen … Well, all the better for you, right?"

Right. She still wasn't quite used to that idea. The worse the other tributes did, the better it was for her. It was an uncomfortable thought. But it was one she would have to get used to if she wanted to win.

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

Barnabas couldn't help a smile as he clapped Elle on the back. "You were great up there! You really showed that audience."

Elle blushed a little. "Th-thank you. You d-d-did r-really well, t-too."

Barnabas smirked. "Well, I didn't tell the audience off for laughing at me." He shook his head as he hoisted himself up onto the couch. "That was something else."

Brindel snorted a little as Elle took a seat on the couch beside Barnabas. "If you're done congratulating each other on an average performance—"

Elle opened her mouth to object, but Barnabas chuckled a little. "Hey, sometimes average isn't bad. At least we didn't antagonize the Career pack. Talk about poking a bear."

Brindel nodded. "Fair point. At least you two have that much sense. And that's a good thing … but it won't keep you alive for long in the arena if you aren't willing to do what has to be done. Now, the audience liked your performance, Elle. But they liked it because you seemed like you were willing to kill. You have to keep that up in the arena if you want to survive. Same for you, Barnabas. Prove you're willing to fight, and you might have a chance."

Barnabas nodded along. Brindel was only trying to help. That was her job. She _had_ to keep telling them – telling herself – that they had a chance. But he'd stopped kidding himself a while ago. If there was a chance, it was a slim one. Even the idea that the Careers might turn on each other and start fighting wasn't really much of a guarantee that he and Elle would have a better chance.

Barnabas took a deep breath, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. "So what's the plan?"

Brindel shrugged. "Same as it always was. You were never planning to rush into the bloodbath, were you?"

Elle shook her head. "N-no way!"

Brindel chuckled. "Good girl. Get away from the cornucopia. Put some distance between yourselves and the Career pack. Packs. Whatever. Get as far away as you can, and find somewhere with resources you can use. Food. Water. But don't get comfortable. Too many tributes make that mistake, and then…"

She didn't have to finish the sentence. Too many tributes grew complacent after putting some distance between themselves and the Careers. They forgot that there were other dangers, or that the Gamemakers could simply send mutts after them if they failed to entertain the Capitol long enough. "Just make sure you do something interesting," Brindel finished vaguely. "Anything to keep their attention. And watch your backs, because other tributes will be trying to do the same thing."


	25. Morning of the Games: Just Breathe

**Morning of the Games  
** **Just Breathe**

* * *

 **Trigger Warning:** Brief mention of abuse in Basil's POV.

* * *

 **Clementine Acres, 18  
** **District One**

Clementine rolled over as the bell sounded, somewhat surprised that she'd actually managed to fall asleep. In fact, she'd slept much more soundly than she would ever have guessed. Despite the stunt that Eight had pulled during the interviews the night before, the plan was the same as it had always been. If the other Careers had any sense, no one would be stupid enough to turn on the pack. And if they were … well, that would just make it even clearer who their first target should be.

Clementine stretched, changed into a plain shirt and pants, and headed out to the kitchen. No point in getting all dressed up. They would be changing into their arena outfits soon enough, anyway. And once they were in the Games, it wouldn't matter what they looked like – not really. Even the Capitolites weren't silly enough to expect tributes to be able to stay clean and pretty-looking during the Games.

Argent was already at the breakfast table, along with Angelo and Jerica. Clementine nodded politely as she took a seat and filled her plate with pancakes, eggs, and an assortment of fruit. There was no telling when her next full meal might be. Sure, Careers usually had access to plenty of food at the cornucopia, but even they had to ration it in case the Games lasted longer than they thought they would.

Not that the Games usually lasted _that_ long. A week or two was the norm. The record was twenty days – two years ago, when Jasmine had won. But the year after that, Jerica had won in less than half that time. This year, though … Would the Gamemakers want to draw things out longer, because it was a Quell? Or would that mean they would want things to be bloodier – and therefore shorter?

Clementine wolfed down the last of her pancakes, trying to clear her head. Wondering how long the Games would last wasn't going to do her any good right now. The important thing was making sure that _she_ was the one to survive them. Whether she made it out in a matter of days or four weeks wouldn't really make a difference, as long as she came home alive.

"Try not to eat too fast," Jerica advised. "The last thing you want is to throw up on your podium. That'd be a lousy way to go."

Clementine chuckled, but took the hint and slowed down a little. She still had plenty of time before they would have to head to the hovercraft that would take them to the arena. She could afford to savor her food for now. She just hoped she would live long enough to eat this well again.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18  
** **District Four**

It was Mags' idea to go meet with his Apple and Ethan one more time before the Games. Both Apple and Ethan looked a bit surprised when he knocked on the door and interrupted their breakfast, but they quickly invited him in. "Have you eaten yet?" Apple asked.

Kekoa nodded. "Yeah, but I wouldn't say no to a little more." He helped himself to one of the muffins on their table. "Given what happened last night, Mags thought it would be a good idea to talk about what we plan to do in the bloodbath if…"

"If one of the Careers decides to go through with joining us?" Ethan finished.

Kekoa nodded. "I want it to be a group decision, but … well, I think we could certainly use the extra help, if it ends up going that way."

"Any idea who it might be?" Apple asked.

Kekoa shook his head. "Could be anyone. Could be no one. Probably, the pair from Eight were just trying to cook up some drama, but that doesn't mean it didn't put the idea in somebody's head. Doesn't mean somebody won't decide to run with it. If I had to take a guess … probably not Clementine or Argent, despite what the kids from Eight said. Clementine's plan to intimidate the other tributes during training was the reason I left the pack in the first place, and Argent was behind her all the way."

It hadn't taken long for the other Careers to back them up, of course, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Any or all of the others could simply have been trying to save face, not wanting to appear soft or look like the weakest link in the pack. He shook his head. "Like I said, it might not happen. I just thought we should be prepared in case it does."

Apple nodded. "I think we should let them. The Capitol would probably love it."

"They probably would," Ethan agreed. "But are we really going to be trust somebody who would be willing to leave the pack just like that?"

Kekoa shook his head. "I didn't say we should _trust_ them. Trust only goes so far in the Games, anyway, no matter when an alliance forms. Even—" He cut himself off before he said it. He didn't need to put that idea into their heads. He didn't need the two of them thinking about what would happen – what would _have_ to happen – when their own alliance came to an end. Right now, they had to worry about surviving the bloodbath. Everything else could wait until after that.

* * *

 **Basil Larch, 15  
** **District Seven**

Basil stretched his arms, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he and Narra headed for the hovercraft. He'd slept better than he'd expected to, but he'd still been drowsy all through breakfast. Maybe that was normal. Chances were, he'd wake up just fine once the adrenaline began to kick in. He just wasn't quite there yet.

That surprised him, really. He'd expected to be afraid. He was about to be fighting for his life, after all. But now that it came down to it, he wasn't scared. Not really. Certainly not the same sort of terror he felt when his father walked in the room and took off his belt. Not the same fear that had driven him to spread enough rumors to get himself voted into the Games. Whatever was waiting for him in the arena, it couldn't be worse than what was behind him.

Basil caught Zion's eye as he boarded the hovercraft. Zion nodded reassuringly, and Basil smiled back. For now, at least, they would have each other's backs. It was an odd feeling, really – having someone there that he could count on, at least for a little while.

He knew better, of course, than to think that would last long. Basil buckled in as the hovercraft lifted off, trying not to look at the other tributes. Eventually, Zion would have to die if he wanted to make it out of the arena alive. So would everyone else on the hovercraft with him right now.

Well, except the Capitolites. One of them inserted a tracker into his arm, then moved on to the next tribute. All very clinical, very professional. There was nothing about the way the Capitolites acted that suggested the twenty-four of them were bound for a fight to the death. It was a bit … odd, in a way.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, really. But ever since they'd arrived at the Capitol, everything had seemed so cheery. The audience, the host, the lights, the music – it was all designed to make the Games look exciting. But now … Now all of that was stripped away. It was just the twenty-four of them flying together to the arena.

And only one of them would be flying back. Basil leaned back in his seat, letting that sink in. In a few weeks, either he would be alive, a Victor, a killer … or he would be dead. But either of those things was better than what he was leaving behind. No matter what happened, he knew he'd made the right choice.

* * *

 **Sienna Ledger, 18  
** **District Twelve**

The hovercraft landed with a gentle whirring noise. One by one, the twenty-four of them were led off the hovercraft and down a hallway. They were underground – that much was obvious. No windows. No sunlight. No hint at all of what the arena might be once they rose up into it.

 _Breathe._ They would find out soon enough what the arena was. Now that they were so close, she almost caught herself wishing that they could just hurry up, already. Sienna kept pace with the Capitolite who led her down the hall and into a small room, where her stylist was waiting for her with her arena outfit.

It didn't look like anything particularly fancy. A lightweight, dark grey jumpsuit with a hood on the back and an abundance of pockets. Good for camouflage in pretty much any kind of arena. Well, except a desert or something similar. Not that she'd really been expecting a desert arena, anyway. They'd done a desert fairly recently, she was sure. Not recently enough for her to remember it well, but she remembered seeing footage from it. She was pretty sure District Four had won that year, strangely enough. An arena with no water, and District Four had won.

 _Calm down._ Sienna shook her head as her stylist helped her into the outfit. "Waterproof, it looks like," the older woman remarked. So it _definitely_ wasn't a desert. Maybe some sort of shoreline? Or a swamp? No, they'd done a swamp recently. That one she remembered. Maybe something with lots of rivers. A rainforest, maybe.

Or a sewer. She remembered footage from that one, too. Tributes slogging through a maze of underground pipes flooded with raw waste. Tributes trying to fight while hip-deep in the muck. Hopefully, the fact that the boy who had survived didn't even make a kill had been enough to convince the Gamemakers that was a bad idea.

"You'll find out soon enough," her stylist assured her, as if she'd read her mind. Sienna nodded and slid on the pair of boots her stylist offered. They were thick, hard-soled, with a good tread. "I wouldn't count on a smooth surface to sleep on," her stylist offered. "These were made for gripping."

Okay. Nothing smooth. That didn't rule out much. Well, maybe an ice rink. Not that she'd really been expecting an ice rink.

 _Breathe._

"Tributes, take your places."

 _Shit._

Sienna took a deep breath as she made her way to the platform. "Good luck!" her stylist called, as if she were simply going off to play a game of cards or something. She was about to be fighting for her _life_. She would have to be a lot more than lucky if she wanted to make it out alive.


	26. Launch: Final Countdown

**Launch  
** **Final Countdown**

* * *

 **Samantha 'Sam' Hacka, 16  
** **District Five**

Slowly, the platform began to rise. Up, up, up. Higher and higher. How far underground had they _been_? Finally, she could see daylight. Sam took a deep breath and clenched her fists. This was it. The arena.

The first thing she could see was garbage. Bits of plastic, cloth, metal, paper, foam – all drenched in some sort of sludge. Sam turned one direction, then another. But it all seemed to be the same. Trash, as far as the eye could see in any direction. It was a garbage dump. A landfill. A place to dispose of all the trash.

Trash like _them_.

Sam scoffed. Great. The metaphor wasn't lost on her. Their districts had chosen them to be thrown away. To be tossed to their deaths in the arena. She just hadn't imagined them taking it quite so literally. To her right, the boy from Seven let out a little chuckle. So he got it, too. Sam nodded and turned her attention to the middle of the circle of tributes, expecting to see the cornucopia full of supplies.

But there was nothing. No supplies. And no _cornucopia_. Was that part of the joke? To cast them out into a fight to the death without any way to defend themselves? Sam shook her head. That just made her decision even easier. She'd been wondering whether she would be able to grab some supplies and make it away from the cornucopia in time. But if there _weren't_ any supplies to grab, then…

Then all she really had to worry about was her ally. Sam glanced around, scanning the platforms for Finch as the timer began to count down. _Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight._

Finally, she saw her ally – six spots to her left. That wasn't the problem. The problem was who was _between_ them. To Sam's immediate left was the girl from Twelve, but _that_ wasn't the problem. After that was the girl from Two, the boy from Five, and the girl from Four. Three Careers, then the girl from Three. And then Finch.

Finch caught Sam's eye, gesturing away from the cornucopia. Well, away from where the cornucopia _should_ have been. Sam nodded. Run. Just run. Maybe the two Career packs would want to fight each other, anyway, even without any weapons. She just hoped that would be enough of a distraction for them to get away.

* * *

 **Hesper Coventry, 18  
** **District Three**

She would just have to hope the Careers would be too focused on each other to care much about her. Hesper took a deep breath as the timer continued to count down. _Forty-five. Forty-four. Forty-three._ There were three Careers immediately to her right. To her left, the boy from Two and the girl from One were sandwiched between the girl from Eleven and the boy from Four. Maybe the Gamemakers were trying to force them into a fight.

But if they'd wanted to do _that_ – if they'd wanted to force the two Career packs to fight it out in the bloodbath – why remove all the weapons? Why give them an arena without a cornucopia? The reason the Careers usually stayed at the cornucopia in the first place was to have easy access to the supplies. But if there _were_ no supplies, there was nothing to make this particular part of the landfill more appealing than any other.

Hesper glanced around at the rest of the arena, searching for somewhere to run. There were mounds of garbage in every direction, any one of which could be good to hide behind. As long as she could get away from the Careers, she would probably be fine for a while. But would the Careers even stay here, or would they try to find somewhere better?

Whatever their plan was, there didn't seem to be much communication going on between members of the pack. Maybe they were just as surprised by the arena as she was. Maybe they were trying to figure out whether it was worth trying to attack each other without weapons.

She hoped they decided it was. That could be enough of a distraction for her to get away. If they decided to come after her – if they decided to abandon the idea of attacking each other in favor of simply trying to take out a few of the weaker targets – there wouldn't really be anywhere for her to go. She had Careers on both sides, and quite a few of them at that.

And there was no one to help her.

Hesper spotted Ari across the circle from her, already gesturing to both of his allies. They were planning to run; that much was obvious. But aside from the boy from One, none of the Careers were anywhere near Ari. And Argent didn't seem to be paying any attention to him. He was watching his allies, maybe wondering if what the pair from Eight had said at the interviews was true, if any of them _were_ planning to turn on the pack. Hesper could only hope that someone would.

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16  
** **District Six**

He was about as far away from Basil as he could get. Zion could feel his heart beating faster as he finally spotted his ally, directly across the circle from him. _Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._ At least there wasn't a cornucopia between them; any other year, he wouldn't even have been able to _see_ Basil, and the bloodbath would have meant a battlefield of Careers between them once the gong sounded. This year…

This year, he might be able to make it across. Or around. Probably around. That would be better. Or maybe they could both try to head around, and meet halfway. There seemed to be more Careers off to his right, so maybe if they both went the other way, they could avoid the worst of the fighting.

Assuming, of course, that the Careers would stay where they were. Without any weapons, their best option was probably to try to attack whoever was closest, catch them off guard, and overpower them quickly. That was what _he_ would do if he was a Career.

Maybe. But he wasn't a Career, and neither was Basil. If there weren't any supplies, their best bet was to get away as quickly as they could, head for one of the bigger piles of junk, and stay there until the fighting died down. Then they could figure out what to do next.

Zion finally caught Basil's eye as the timer continued to count down. Zion silently gestured to his left. He didn't want to shout. Didn't want to attract attention. There was no one nearby he was particularly worried about, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The girl from Seven was to his right, the boy from Twelve a few places to his left, but they seemed more interested in communicating with their ally about where to run than attacking him. The girl from Nine was immediately to his left, but her attention was on her district partner, several spots away from her. Two spots to his right, the boy from Four was gesturing to his own ally, the girl from Eleven. Their third ally, the boy from Eleven, was on the opposite side of the circle, and the two of them would probably have their hands full with the two Careers between them.

No one seemed particularly interested in him. Good. That was good.

He just hoped it stayed that way.

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

A few of the others had noticed it, too. Ludwig couldn't help a smirk as he glanced around the circle, the timer still counting down. _Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen._ Most of them were too busy. Too busy planning their next move. Communicating with their allies. Figuring out where too run. Too busy to notice what was right in front of them.

But not all of them. A few places to his right, the girl from Eight was eyeing something on the ground beside her, probably hidden beneath some of the garbage. The boy from Three, while making a show of communicating with his allies, had been quietly scanning the ground in front of him, deciding where to dig. And the girl from Ten, off to his left, had spotted something a few feet behind her.

The metaphor was a little on the nose for his tastes, but the Capitol would undoubtedly love it. Their own districts had cast them out, cast them aside, like the garbage that surrounded them. But for those who were willing to dig deep enough, there was something valuable to be found beneath the rubbish. Maybe even something wonderful.

Or, at the very least, something useful. Ludwig glanced down once more at the ground in front of him. There, beneath the plastic and paper and cloth, was a blade of some sort. He couldn't tell exactly how large or what kind, but any sort of weapon would be useful enough for now. And if there were weapons beneath the top layer of garbage, chances were good that there were supplies down there, as well.

 _Ten. Nine. Eight._ Ludwig nodded a little as the numbers continued to wind down. Only a few more seconds. Soon, he would have a weapon in his hands. He was probably one of the few who would. It was only a matter of time before he would be able to make his mark. The other tributes would have no idea what hit them.

 _Seven. Six. Five. Four._ In a way, he was grateful that the Gamemakers had chosen such an odd arrangement for the cornucopia – or lack thereof. It certainly revealed something about the competition, about who was alert enough, perceptive enough, to notice what the Gamemakers were up to.

 _Three. Two. One._ A voice boomed through the arena as the gong sounded. "Let the first Quarter Quell begin!"

* * *

 **Let the Games begin! After a couple quick notes.**

 **\- Last chance to vote in the bloodbath poll. Voting after the next chapter would be cheating a bit.**

 **\- A map of the arena is up on the website, along with the layout of the ... erm, cornucopia. It's color-coordinated by alliance.**


	27. Bloodbath: The End of the Beginning

**Bloodbath  
** **The End of the Beginning**

* * *

 **Warning:** We're finally at the point where tributes are going to start dying. I'm not going to slap a warning on every death, but I'll try to give you a heads up about anything particularly gruesome, and I'll do my best to keep the violence to a T rating.

That having been said, here we go!

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18  
** **District One**

 _Three. Two. One. "Let the first Quarter Quell begin!"_

Immediately, Argent sprang off his pedestal, not really sure about which direction to go once he did so. Usually, the Careers immediately went for the supplies inside the cornucopia. But there _was_ no cornucopia. No clear direction he was supposed to run.

Suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The boy from Nine was reaching for something on the ground. No, something buried _under_ the ground. A blade of some sort. The boy snatched it up and took off in the opposite direction – after one of the younger boys who was running away. Argent chuckled, scanning the ground for anything useful.

After a moment, he spotted something beneath the surface. It wasn't a long blade, but it would do for now. He snatched it up and turned to his left. Most of the tributes were already scattering. He could see the pair from Ten running away. He could probably catch them – what with the boy's stubby legs and all – but the boy a few places to his left was a _much_ more tempting target. The boy from Eleven, one of Kekoa's stooges who had dared to challenge the Career pack.

He was going to regret that.

The boy had figured out the clue, too, and was rummaging through the garbage at his feet. But before he could find anything useful, Argent was on top of him. A good kick to the stomach brought him to his knees, and Argent buried his blade deep into the boy's back. When he pulled it out, blood poured from the wound. The boy crumpled to the ground, twitching in pain for a moment before going still, probably still unaware of exactly what had hit him.

Argent glanced around the rest of the area. Several other groups of tributes were already fighting – including most of the Careers – but there didn't seem to be anyone else who had killed. Argent smiled to himself. The first kill of the first Quarter Quell was all his.

* * *

 **Dusty Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

She was just lucky the boy from One had decided to turn left rather than right. Dusty snatched up a few more bits of food and shoved them into a small, makeshift bag she'd fashioned out of one of the larger pieces of fabric on the ground. "Come _on_!" Selwyn insisted, but they still had a little time before anyone would decide to come after them.

Then she saw him – the boy from One. He'd finished his kill quicker than she'd assumed, and was running back in their direction. "Run!" Dusty called, as if Selwyn hadn't already taken off ahead of her. She hurried after him as quickly as she could, hoping maybe the Career would decide not to follow them.

Running on the piles of garbage, however, was harder than she'd imagined, and the pair of them were quickly reduced to scrambling on their hands and knees up one of the larger piles of garbage. Only once they were halfway up did Dusty dare to look back. The Career was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he'd decided they weren't worth the trouble. Maybe some of his fellow Careers had needed his help to finish off someone else. Either way, they had made it. They were safe.

"What about Sienna?" Selwyn gasped as the pair of them collapsed onto the pile of garbage. "Did you see her?"

Dusty shook her head. Sienna had been on the other side of the … well, where the cornucopia _would_ have been. She'd assumed, since she and Selwyn had been closer to this side, that Sienna would have the sense to join them, rather than the other way around. And, if she was being honest with herself, she'd been too distracted by the supplies she'd noticed on the ground to really care _which_ of her allies decided to join her.

"I don't know," Dusty admitted. "We'll just have to hope that she'll find us."

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

As soon as the gong sounded, Valkyrie lunged to her right – towards the girl from Twelve. Snap had been to her left, after all, and attacking him wasn't an option. She'd thought about it – about turning on the Career pack. But with both Snap and Mora so close – and with Kekoa's alliance so far away – any thought of leaving the pack was long since gone. She was stuck with them.

Which meant she would have to prove herself. So she delivered a punch squarely to the girl's jaw, as hard as she could. The girl from Twelve, desperate, punched back, but Valkyrie quickly dodged, diving at the girl's legs and tackling her to the ground. The girl kicked Valkyrie in the stomach, and, for a moment, Valkyrie almost let go.

Almost. Then Snap was beside her, kicking the girl from Twelve in the head. Once. Twice. Now the girl was screaming. Blood splattered all around, and still Valkyrie didn't let go. She held the girl fast as Snap delivered blow after blow. Finally, the girl stopped struggling. Her body went still.

And Snap still didn't stop.

A part of her wanted to tell him to stop. Insist that it was over. But that would only mean leaving to find another victim. Someone else to kill. One was enough, wasn't it? Sure, she hadn't actually _killed_ the girl, but she'd helped. She'd held her still while…

It was enough to make her sick. She wanted to look away. To turn around and vomit her entire breakfast all over this garbage heap. But she didn't. She couldn't. If she did, everyone watching would know she didn't have the stomach for what was happening. No, she had to do this. And she had to watch.

So she did.

* * *

 **Sam Hacka, 16  
** **District Five**

That could have been her. It _might_ have been her, if she'd been one pedestal to the left. The two Careers had only gone after the girl from Twelve out of convenience. She'd been the nearest target. The only thing stopping it from being her was sheer dumb luck.

As soon as she was far enough away, Sam ducked behind the nearest pile of garbage and threw up. She could still hear the sound – the crunching and cracking as her district partner beat the girl from Twelve into a pulp. Her district partner. Would he really have done that to her? Maybe. Maybe not. But the girl from Two certainly would have. They were Careers, after all. This was what they did.

Sam tucked her knees to her chest, breathing hard, trying to clear her head. She knew she should keep moving, but part of her wanted to just stay here and wait. Wait for the end. That was what she'd wanted, after all. Wasn't it? She'd been _relieved_ to be chosen for the Games, because that meant it would all be over. But this wasn't how she'd imagined it ending. What had happened to the girl from Twelve – that wasn't how she wanted to go.

"Sam!" Finch's voice shook her from her thoughts. She wasn't sure whether she should be grateful for that or not. Her thoughts had been dark, but their situation wasn't much better. Unless, of course, Finch had managed to snag some supplies from … from where? She had seen a few of the tributes holding weapons, but where had they found them?

Sam waited a moment before responding. She didn't want to give away her position, but it was definitely Finch's voice. "Over here!" she called, peering out from behind the pile of junk to see Finch running towards her as quickly as she could over the debris. The Gamemakers certainly weren't interesting in making running easy.

Maybe that was the idea.

Finch quickly ducked behind the pile of garbage. "Are you all right?"

Sam nodded. "You?"

"Made it out," Finch gasped, out of breath. "That counts for something, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed.

"We should keep moving. I think some of them might have seen which way I went. Maybe we should—"

Before Sam could answer, however, a laugh cut them short.

* * *

 **Basil Larch, 15  
** **District Seven**

The fact that there was a boy chasing him was bad enough, but did he have to _laugh_? Basil glanced behind him, and immediately wished he hadn't. The boy from Nine was catching up, cackling almost hysterically. He was holding a curved blade, glinting in the sunlight. Basil clenched his fists as he ran.

Suddenly, his foot caught on something. Exactly what, he wasn't sure. It could have been anything, really. The ground was so full of things to stumble over, it was a wonder he'd been able to keep his balance this long. Basil reached for the nearest thing he could find – a bottle. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was something, if the other boy got close enough for him to use it. He knew all too well how much damage could be done with broken glass. Basil slammed the bottle against the ground, satisfied that it broke on the first try, sending pieces of glass shattering in all directions and leaving him with a passable weapon.

Basil staggered to his feet just as the boy reached him. The older boy swung high, and he ducked low, aiming for the boy's legs. If he could injure him enough to make him think twice about running…

But the boy stepped out of the way in time, then kicked at Basil's outstretched hand. Basil yelped but managed to hold onto his weapon. It was the only hope he had left.

The boy's blade came down, slicing across his stomach before he could scramble out of the way. Basil cried out in pain as the boy kicked him in the ribs, bringing him to his knees. A hand closed around his wrist, wrenching the bottle from his grasp. He couldn't breathe. Something stabbed into his chest, and in an instant he was on his back, a pair of hands around his throat.

Then, just as suddenly, the boy's grip loosened. "Scream," he hissed. "Scream for help."

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

The boy was silent for a moment. Not really surprising, considering how tightly Ludwig had been gripping his throat. After a moment, the boy coughed weakly and used what meager strength he had left to shake his head. "No."

It was only one word, but Ludwig could see it in the boy's eyes. He wasn't going to get any fun out of this one. Someone had already beaten him to it; the boy had already had all the fun beaten out of him. Oh, well. Maybe that was for the best. There was already someone else coming, after all. "Are you sure about that?" Ludwig asked, jerking the boy's head to the side so he could see who was coming. "Sure you don't want to scream?"

The boy gasped when he saw who it was running towards them. "Zion, run!" he screamed as loudly as his lungs could manage. Which wasn't all that loud, but Ludwig was certain the older boy had heard him. Certain that Zion could see him as he snapped Basil's neck.

"No!" Zion screamed. Of course he did. They always did. As if that one word could stop what had already happened – and what was certain to happen next. Ludwig stood up slowly, taking his time as Zion charged. The boy didn't even have a weapon. He'd been so focused on reaching his ally that he hadn't even thought twice about what he was going to do once he got there.

That was going to cost him.

Sure enough, Zion's plan seemed to consist of trying to tackle Ludwig and beat him to death. Ludwig went along with it for a moment, toppling backwards onto the garbage as Zion fell on top of him, apparently quite surprised that his plan had worked. As soon as Zion landed his first punch, however, Ludwig grabbed his wrist, then smacked him in the head with the weapon Zion hadn't seen – the broken bottle that he'd taken from the boy's young ally.

The bottle hit hard. Not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to daze him. Ludwig threw one punch. Then another. Crude, perhaps, but using his blade would be too quick. He wanted this to last. Now that he had a kill under his belt, the audience would be content to let him savor this one.

Another few blows to the head were enough to completely incapacitate his opponent. Ludwig left him there for a moment, unconscious, as he slung the dead body of the younger boy over his shoulder. Then he grabbed the older boy by one of the ankles and dragged him along through the rubbish. This was going to be fun.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

"We have to do something," Finch hissed as the boy from Nine disappeared into the distance, carrying one body and dragging another boy by his ankle. "He's going to—"

Sam cut her off. "What? Kill them? One of them's already dead. You heard that snap."

She had. "But Zion's alive."

"Barely. He's as good as dead once that boy decides the fun is over. And it's not our job to rescue him. _Our_ job is to make sure the same thing doesn't happen to us."

"But—"

"No buts," Sam insisted. "I'm getting out of here – in the other direction. If you want to play hero, you can do it alone."

Finch hesitated for a moment as Sam slunk off to the right – the opposite direction from where the boy had gone. As much as she hated to admit it, Sam was right. They weren't heroes. They were tributes. And sometimes staying alive meant leaving someone else to die.

Even her district partner.

Finch swallowed hard and followed Sam. Maybe if she'd stepped in earlier. Maybe she could have caught the boy off guard while he'd been punching Zion. But she'd been too scared. She didn't have any weapons, after all, and neither did Sam. And what he'd done to the younger boy…

No. No, she couldn't risk that happening to her – not for some boy she'd met less than a week ago. "I'm sorry, Zion," she whispered as she hurried to catch up to Sam. "I hope someone else is braver than me."

* * *

 **Hesper Coventry, 18  
** **District Three**

"Damn garbage," Hesper muttered as the ground beneath her gave way again, catching her boot. She tried her best to yank her foot free, but the boot was stuck. "Great," Hepser hissed. She hadn't even made it that far yet. Behind her, she could see some of the Careers fighting. It looked like they were fighting each other, but all it would take was one glance in this direction for one of them to notice her.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. "Well, what have we here?" Hesper turned to see the girl from Four, Mora, standing over her. "Feeling a little trapped, are we?"

Hesper grabbed a piece of the garbage – a piece of wood about a foot long – and swung it in Mora's direction. But that didn't stop Mora's axe from coming down towards her. Hesper did her best to dodge, but that was hard with her foot stuck. The axe struck her in the knee, slicing deep – almost all the way through the leg. Hesper screamed as blood came flowing out.

She rolled to one side, trying to dodge the axe, but it was useless. She was already growing faint from the blood loss. The second blow struck her in the shoulder. Hesper fell backwards onto the garbage, giving her a perfect view of the axe as it swung towards her neck.

* * *

 **Mora Loch-Tiller, 18  
** **District Four**

The axe didn't _quite_ slice all the way through the girl's neck, but it was close enough. Mora nodded, satisfied, and cast her gaze back towards the cornucopia, such as it was. It hadn't taken her long to figure out the trick. A few of the other tributes digging through the rubbish was enough to give it away, and she'd soon found an axe handle sticking out of the garbage.

Apparently, it hadn't taken the other Careers long to figure it out, either. Clementine had found what looked like a rudimentary spear, but she was sandwiched between Kekoa, who had found a dagger, and Apple, who was wielding what looked like a small sickle. Vino was still digging through the garbage. What was he looking for?

Mora shook the thought from her head. It didn't matter. Clementine needed some help. Mora charged at Apple, who happened to be nearer. Apple, startled by the sight of blood on Mora's axe, barely managed to dodge her blow in time. As it was, Mora succeeded in breaking her away from the rest of the fight, leaving Kekoa to Clementine. Now she would get to see if Clementine was really up to the task.

Mora grinned as she forced Apple farther and farther away from the others. This was child's play. She was toying with her prey now, but there was no harm. Once Vino found a weapon, he and Clementine could handle Kekoa, even if Clementine couldn't manage by herself.

Just then, she saw Kekoa racing towards them, with Clementine close behind. Clementine tripped, cursing loudly and giving Kekoa a little more time. Mora swung again, keeping Apple at bay as she turned to face Kekoa.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18  
** **District Four**

This was what the Capitol wanted. Maybe it was what they'd always wanted, from the moment he'd left the Career pack. The two Career packs fighting each other. Him fighting Mora. He'd tried to leave the pack peacefully, but maybe that simply wasn't possible. Maybe this had always been inevitable.

Fine. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. Kekoa swung his dagger, slicing through the air as Mora dodged. He blocked her next blow, and the next. She had all day. He didn't. It was only a matter of time before Clementine caught up. He'd caught her off guard by running after Mora, and he'd gotten lucky when she'd tripped, but that luck could only last so long.

He would have to finish this quickly.

For now, at least, he had the upper hand. He had Apple. Trouble was, she had no real idea what she was doing, and she was a bit rattled by the fact that Ethan…

 _Not the time._ They would have time later to mourn for Ethan, to feel sorry that they hadn't been able to do anything. In the end, there _was_ nothing they could have done. They had been too far away to do anything but watch.

Watching, however, had tipped them off to the fact that there were weapons hidden under the garbage. Probably other supplies, as well, but weapons were what they'd been interested in. They could worry about food and other supplies later.

If there _was_ a later.

Mora swung again, trying to knock him to the ground. Kekoa caught Apple's eye. Only for a split second, but a split second was enough. It was now or never. Clementine was almost there, with Vino close behind, a spear in his hand. They had to be quick.

The next time Mora swung, Kekoa fell, trying to make it look like an accident. If Mora suspected something, she clearly decided it was worth the risk. She stepped closer, axe outstretched, ready to deliver another blow.

Just as she was about to swing, Apple's sickle sliced across her leg. Mora whirled around, but not quickly enough. Kekoa sprang to his feet, burying his dagger in Mora's chest as the axe fell from her hand. Her body went limp, but she almost looked like she was … laughing. Kekoa turned to see Clementine a few steps away from him, her spear raised.

Then he saw another spear flying towards them. He saw it; Clementine didn't. The spear struck her perfectly in the back, the tip piercing through to the front of her chest. Clementine barely had time to look down at it before collapsing to the ground. She never even saw who had thrown it.

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18  
** **District Two**

She had no idea who had thrown the spear. Vino held up his hands as Kekoa pointed his dagger in Vino's direction. "Whoa, calm down. I'm on your side."

Apple raised her sickle. "Prove it."

Vino chuckled, gesturing to Clementine's body. "Pretty sure I just did."

Kekoa shook his head. "All that means is you're _not_ on her side. Why should we believe you won't do the same to us if we turn _our_ backs?"

"You shouldn't," Vino shrugged. "This is the Hunger Games. None of us can really trust each other. But I don't think you can really afford to turn down help right now."

Kekoa considered that. But only for a moment. He had a point, and Kekoa knew it, even if he didn't want to admit it out loud. "Then grab some supplies and let's get out of here," Kekoa finally relented. "But don't think for one second that we trust you."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vino grinned. He'd known what he was in for the second he'd made the decision to kill Clementine. He was a traitor now. A traitor to the pack. A traitor to the Careers. No one would trust him. No one would turn their back on him for a second.

But the _audience_ … The audience would love it. They would love _him_. This was the sort of drama they'd wanted when the pair from Eight had insisted someone was going to turn on the pack. No one else had thought it was worth the risk to take the bait, but he hadn't been able to resist. If he was right, this one move could win him the audience's favor – and maybe even the Games. If he was wrong, it would get him killed. It was almost exciting.

Almost. Vino snatched up a few bottles of what certainly looked like water and a small bag tucked under a pile of sludge and took off after Kekoa and Apple. He just hoped he'd made the right choice.

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14  
** **District Seven**

She was just glad the Careers had decided to fight after all. Narra, Ari, and Derek slowed down as they made their way farther and farther away from the bloodbath. Thanks to the distraction the Careers had provided for each other, the three of them had managed to grab a fair amount of food, supplies, and weapons, mostly tucked neatly into their many pockets, hidden from anyone who didn't happen to notice that those pockets were bulging. Hopefully, no one would be getting that close.

"What do you think of resting here for a while?" Derek suggested as they approached one of the larger piles of garbage. Ari nodded, and Narra flopped down onto one of the more comfortable-looking parts of the heap, making sure the pile was between them and the bloodbath. Not that it would provide much cover if anyone happened to be coming from a different direction, but there didn't seem to be many places – if any – that would. There appeared to be an abundance of piles, but nothing that would truly hide them if it came down to it.

Narra took a deep breath, emptying her pockets along with the others so they could sort through what they'd gathered. It could be worse. It could be a _lot_ worse.

"Not bad at all," Ari concluded once they'd finished taking inventory of their supplies. All in all, they had four bottles of water, a dozen small rolls, two packages of crackers, a bag of dried fruit, a small coil of rope, six knives, a hatchet, and a dagger.

"This should last us a while," Derek agreed, tucking two of the knives into his pockets. Ari took the other two, leaving two for Narra. "What about the rest of the weapons?" Derek asked.

Ari thought for a moment. "Whoever's keeping watch should take them. We'll rotate shifts, whether we're sleeping or not. It'll be good to have one person who's always on alert. I'll take the first shift, if you'd like to get some rest."

Derek nodded. "Fine with me."

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

"So what'd you grab?" Barnabas asked as the pair of them collapsed in a heap by the nearest pile of garbage. They were still a bit too close to the cornucopia – or, at least, where the cornucopia should have been – for his comfort, but Elle could apparently tell that he was tiring. She didn't even seem winded. She'd even had time to snatch a few things from beneath the piles of rubbish at the start before catching up to him.

Elle pulled the supplies from her pockets. A small box of matches, a knife, and a bottle of water. "N-n-not m-much," Elle shrugged. "B-but m-m-maybe there's s-s-something useful h-here, t-t-too."

Barnabas started digging through the piles of garbage around him. There didn't seem to be much near the surface, but maybe that was the point. To make them dig a little deeper than they wanted to. He managed to find a couple rags, several empty bottles, and a half-eaten apple. "It doesn't look very good," he admitted, putting it in the pile. "But if we get to the point where we're starving, it's better than nothing."

Elle nodded her agreement, took a sip of water, and then passed the bottle to him. "At l-least w-w-we're a-alive."

He couldn't argue with that. They'd made it away from the bloodbath, due at least partly to sheer dumb luck. Both the boy from One and the boy from Nine had found weapons; they were just lucky neither of them had decided to come after the pair of them. Neither had considered them enough of a threat.

That made sense, after all. There was no harm in letting the pair of them get away from the bloodbath. What were they going to do? It wasn't as if the two of them were going to try to take down the Careers or wipe out the rest of the tributes. As long as they were still alive, though, that was something. As long as they were alive, there was still a chance.

* * *

 **Snap Shelby, 18  
** **District Five**

"There's still a chance we could catch up to them," Argent suggested, eyeing the body of his district partner on the ground beside them, along with Mora's body. With the two of them dead and Vino apparently turning traitor, that left three of them. _Three_. Him, Argent, and Valkyrie. Not much of a Career pack. In fact, Kekoa's pack now matched their numbers, even though Ethan was dead.

Fortunately, it was Valkyrie who spoke up. "I don't think that's such a good idea – not right now, anyway. There are three of them. Three of us. We need to find a way to get the advantage back."

"Coward," Argent muttered.

Valkyrie shook her head. "Argent, they killed _two_ of us."

"Two of us who were stupid enough not to suspect that _your_ district partner was the traitor."

"Did _you_ know?" Valkyrie shot back. "Because _I_ certainly didn't. I would have killed him myself if I thought he was the one who was going to turn on us. But none of us knew."

"None of us _could_ have known," Snap shrugged. "He probably didn't even decide for certain until he saw the opportunity. It could have been any of us."

"But it wasn't," Valkyrie agreed. "The two of us got a kill. Argent got a kill. And we found out who wouldn't really cut it as part of the pack. They're dead. We're alive. That's all there is to it."

Snap forced himself to nod. Better not to mention _why_ he had kept beating the girl from Twelve to a pulp long after she was actually dead. Better to ignore the fact that his district partner would have been the next natural target, and that if he'd conceded that the job was finished, Valkyrie might have suggested going after Sam, instead.

As it was, they could account for at least five bodies. Besides Clementine and Mora, Ethan was dead, as was the girl from Three and the girl from Twelve. Five was a small bloodbath, but what did the Gamemakers expect when they hadn't put the weapons and supplies out in the open?

Snap took the initiative and started digging through the garbage around them, sorting the supplies into piles. Maybe it wasn't a traditional cornucopia, but there seemed to be enough supplies to last them for a while, and enough weapons to go around. Especially since there were only three of them. Maybe that would be a good thing, after all.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

 _Boom._ The sound of the first cannon nearly made Brindle jump. She had run straight away from the bloodbath, and had managed to put a good distance between herself and the Careers. The Gamemakers wanted the tributes to try to grab supplies from the cornucopia – or lack thereof – but she wasn't going to play into their hands.

She'd figured it out, of course. Well, Ludwig had figured it out, and she'd been watching him. But getting out of there alive had been more important – and getting as far away from Ludwig as she could. So she'd run in the opposite direction, and he'd seemed content to chase … someone. She wasn't sure exactly who, but someone.

Someone who wasn't her. That was the important thing, really. Everyone else had decided to go after someone who _wasn't_ her. Even with the ruckus she'd caused at the reaping, even with her family name, even with her low training score that the Gamemakers had probably given her to make her a target. Even with all that, once it really came down to it, most people didn't see a lone, unarmed tribute as a threat.

 _Boom._ Brindle settled down on a pile of garbage and listened as the rest of the cannons sounded. _Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._ Six in all. Six tributes were dead. Not as many as normal, perhaps, but that was probably what they'd intended when they'd hidden the weapons. They wanted to draw this out as long as they could.

Brindle sighed and ran her fingers along the side of an empty glass bottle beside her. Six tributes dead. Eighteen of them left. And she was still alive. That had to count for something. And right now, it counted for everything.

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16  
** **District Six**

It was the cannons that woke him, and Zion immediately wished they hadn't. His mouth was dry, but he could still taste blood. Every part of his body ached, but worst of all was a sharp throbbing in his shoulders. It took him a moment to figure out why. He was hanging by his hands from … something, in a position halfway between kneeling and standing, his shoulders supporting most of his weight.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and the light was blinding. The first thing he noticed was that his arms were bare. The sleeves had been torn from his jumpsuit, and it didn't take him long to put it together. Strips of fabric – the same grey as his jumpsuit – bound his wrists to something. Something metal. It took him a moment to recognize it as an old train car, dirty and rusted out. It certainly looked like something that belonged in a junk heap.

The train car was turned on its side, and his hands were bound to a metal rod above his head that ran the length of the bottom of the car. Slowly, Zion shifted his weight until he was standing more or less upright. His boots were gone, as were his socks, leaving him standing barefoot in the muck. But the pain in his shoulders wasn't quite as sharp now. Now he just had to figure out what had happened.

Basil. He remembered what had happened to Basil. He hadn't reached him quickly enough, but if his current predicament was anything to go by, it wouldn't have mattered even if he had. The boy from Nine had bested him easily without even using his weapon. Basil had been as good as dead the moment the older boy had caught up to him.

Dead. Basil was dead. So why wasn't he? Zion glanced around, looking for any sign of the boy who had beaten him. He remembered losing consciousness. He'd assumed he was going to die. So why was he still alive? Why was he _always_ still alive? His brother was dead. Basil was dead. And he was still here. Why? Why hadn't one of those cannons been his? Why hadn't the boy simply killed him when he'd had the chance?

And what did he have planned for him now?

* * *

 **Jairus Fritz  
** **Head Gamemaker**

Everything was going according to plan. Well, more or less, at least. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan during the Games, which was why it was never a good idea to have plans that were set in stone.

During the first few Games, the Gamemakers hadn't had much of an opportunity to intervene. The Games had been over too quickly. During the Fifth and Sixth Games, however, with the advent of the sponsor system and the first mutts, they had intervened perhaps a bit too much. Would Barrick have won without the constant support of the sponsors? Maybe. There was no way to know.

Since then, however, they'd learned. They'd found a balance between letting the Games proceed without them and cherry-picking their Victor. Of course, he could still choose to eliminate anyone who might prove to be a nuisance as a Victor, but the other tributes generally did a good job of weeding out troublemakers on their own. After all, once it was common knowledge that the Gamemakers were targeting someone, tributes knew that being the one to kill that tribute would earn them the audience's favor – something that could turn the tide if things started to go badly for them.

Jairus leaned back in his chair, watching as the tributes spread a bit farther apart. Progress was slow, however, as he'd expected when they'd designed the arena. It certainly wasn't built for sprinting, that was for sure. This was a marathon, not a sprint. Well, less of a marathon and more of an obstacle course. A steeplechase – yes, that was the word for it. It was still a race of sorts, but more a test of endurance and persistence than mere speed.

"Sir?" The voice belonged to one of the younger Gamemakers, a twenty-something named Prometheus. "Should we do something about that?" He gestured to one of the screens, which was focused on Zion, still bound to the overturned train car. Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of the car was Ludwig, sorting through a few supplies he'd found buried in the rubble, including a few small blades, a coil of rope, and some matches.

Jairus thought it over for a moment. The audience had their limits, of course, for what they would tolerate in the Games. Killing – even killing for sport – was one thing. Cold-blooded torture was another. They liked a good fight. A fair fight, or even a dirty fight. But this wasn't going to be a fight. It was going to be cruel.

And he could stop it. With a word, a mutt could intervene and kill the Ludwig, or Zion, or both. But that line … He knew where it was, and Ludwig hadn't crossed it. He had little doubt that the boy would, but he hadn't yet. Jairus shook his head, his arms crossed over his chest. "Not yet," he decided. "Let him have his fun."

* * *

 **And that's it for the bloodbath. Results of the bloodbath poll are up on the website, and the tribute and map sections have been updated. Final eight poll is up on my profile.**


	28. Day One: Aftermath

**Warning:** Between Ludwig and Zion's POVs, things get a bit gruesome in this chapter. The worst of it happens "off-camera," so to speak, but if you'd rather skip those POVs and would a summary instead, just shoot me a PM.

Also, please let me know if I'm pushing the boundary of a "T" rating. I've never been entirely sure where that line is, and the ratings guide provided in the guidelines is ... less than clear, to say the least. So if you could let me know if I cross it _before_ reporting me, that would be splendid. Thanks.

* * *

 **Day One  
** **Aftermath**

* * *

 **Clint Breckin, 21  
** **District Two Mentor**

He'd been expecting the knock on the door ever since Vino had killed Clementine. In fact, part of him was surprised she'd bothered to knock. "Come in!" Clint called.

Before he'd even finished the sentence, Jerica had barged into the room. Her face was red. "Did you know?" she demanded. "Did you know Vino was planning to turn on the rest of the pack? Did you know he was the traitor?"

Clint shook his head. "I knew he was thinking about it, but as far as I know, he hadn't made up his mind until he was actually in the arena. But if I _had_ known, do you really think I would have told you? Kind of defeats the point of surprising the rest of the pack with the betrayal, don't you think?"

Jerica was still glaring. "You knew he was _thinking_ about it, though?"

"We discussed it last night, yes."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Probably the same thing you told Clementine. The same thing Angelo told Argent, the same thing Cliff told Valkyrie and Hudson told Mora. Hell, probably even the same thing Mina told Snap. She's no Career, mind you, but she's not an idiot. I told him to weigh the dangers and the potential benefits and to make his own decision. I told him that it would probably be safer to stick with the pack, but that turning on them might attract the audience."

"And what did he say?"

"Said he'd think about it. What did Clementine say?"

Jerica sighed. "She said no. Immediately. I didn't press the matter after that. Maybe I should have."

Cliff shook his head. "Maybe. Maybe not. After all, if _all_ of them had tried to join Kekoa, there wouldn't be a pack left to turn their backs on."

"I suppose not," Jerica agreed. "So now what?"

Cliff leaned back in his chair. "What do you mean?"

"We're barely a few hours into the Games, and my tribute's dead. I always figured … well, I figured she'd last a bit longer than that. That I'd have my hands full working with sponsors and discussing strategies with the other mentors. What am I supposed to do now?"

Cliff chuckled a little. "Never thought about it like that, I guess. There's really only one thing to do, then." He smiled. "Sit back and enjoy the rest of the show."

* * *

 **Zion Harper, 16  
** **District Six**

"Damn it," Zion muttered between clenched teeth. He'd been trying for at least an hour now to work his way free from the knots that bound his wrists to the bar overhead. It was getting warmer, the sun overhead beginning to beat down on the arena. The garbage stank. The muck he was standing in was wet and sticky. And he'd still seen no sign of anyone.

He'd thought about calling for help, but what good would it do? He'd only had one ally, and Basil was dead. Anyone else who came along was more likely to take advantage of the situation to kill him rather than let him loose. And he couldn't shake the feeling that the boy who had brought him here – the boy from Nine – was lurking somewhere, waiting for…

For what? For him to work his way free? Was he trying to give him a sporting chance? Zion grunted in frustration as the knots seemed to grow even tighter. The fabric was surprisingly strong, and showed no signs of beginning to break. And the bonds were too tight for him to wriggle his way free.

"Do you like it?" The voice caught him off-guard even though he'd suspected the boy was nearby. "It's called a constrictor knot. The more you pull, the tighter it gets." The boy from Nine stepped out from behind the train car. "Simple, really, but quite effective. I'm afraid you're stuck here with me."

"What do you want?" Zion growled. "Why don't you just kill me?"

"Oh, I plan to," the boy assured him. "But not just yet. You and I – we're going to have a little fun first. I couldn't help noticing your scars. Burn marks, are they?"

Zion scoffed. "How long did it take you to figure that one out?"

"My, you're a feisty one. But you're right; it was rather obvious. I think I might light a fire – say, right over here." He produced a box of matches from one of his pockets. "What do you say to that?"

Zion said nothing. Nothing as the boy gathered some of the trash into a pile and lit it, stopping every so often to stoke the flames. He pulled harder at his bonds, but his hands were growing numb. The boy had been right about the knots getting tighter. But what other choice did he have?

Zion tried his best not to flinch as the boy stuck the end of a piece of piping – perhaps three feet long and two inches thick – into the flames. When he drew it out, the end was red hot. Slowly, he approached the train car. Zion held his breath. This could be his chance. If the other boy got close enough…

As soon as he was close enough, Zion kicked the boy as hard as he could in the groin. The older boy staggered back, but the look on his face – it wasn't pain. It was almost … almost amusement. In one swift motion, he lunged forward again and slammed the piece of piping against Zion's knee. It struck with a terrible cracking sound, and Zion cried out in pain. His leg gave way, leaving him dangling from his hands, which were almost completely numb.

His shoulders burned with the strain, but as soon as he tried to stand on his other leg, the pipe swung again. Tears came to Zion's eyes, and a cry escaped him once more. "That's enough of that," the boy from Nine muttered, stuffing a dirty rag into his mouth. "Can't have you drawing the other tributes' attention, can we?" He shook his head. "Now, let's try this again."

* * *

 **Elle Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

"D-d-did you h-hear th-th-that?" Elle whispered, her voice squeaking a little too much for her liking. The sound had come from somewhere off to their right, and it didn't sound too far away. It was definitely a scream. Almost certainly human. But there hadn't been a cannon. Whoever had screamed was still alive. But the screaming had stopped. Did that mean they were unconscious, or was there some other explanation?

Barnabas nodded, his eyes wide with fear. "I heard it. Half the arena probably heard it."

"It s-sounded c-c-close." She hoped she didn't sound as scared as she felt.

"Maybe it's time for us to get moving, then," Barnabas suggested, gesturing in the opposite direction from the sound.

"Y-y-you d-don't th-think we sh-should…"

"What?"

"S-see wh-what it is?"

"Why?"

"S-someone c-c-could b-be h-hurt."

Barnabas slowly got to his feet. "That's the point, Elle. The whole point of the Games. Think it through. A couple things could be happening. One: Two tributes are over there, and one of them is killing the other. Two: There's a tribute being killed by a mutt. And three: Someone's trying to lure us in by making it _sound_ like one of those things is happening. I don't think any of those are things we want to go towards."

"B-but if s-s-someone's h-hurt…"

"Then they'll be dead soon. Or they won't be. Maybe they're just scared. I don't know. And that's the point. I don't know what's over there, and neither do you. But that's not—" He stopped short as another scream split the air, then recovered his wits and finished. "That's not our fight."

Elle swallowed hard. The worst part was, he was right. It wasn't their fight. Whoever was over there, it would be better for the two of them if that person died. And it was better for them if the audience's attention was focused elsewhere, even if it meant that someone else was dying a painful death. Elle looked away. "Y-you're r-r-right."

Barnabas reached up and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Being right sucks sometimes. But we're alive. And if we're going to stay that way, we can't worry about anyone else. We keep each other alive, and the rest of the arena can scream their heads off. Deal?"

"D-deal," Elle whispered, and they set off in the opposite direction. It was easier said than done. Eventually, the screams stopped, but there was still no cannon. Still no sign that the person who was screaming had actually died.

Maybe Barnabas had been right about it being a trap. About someone trying to lure them in by making them think that someone needed help. Maybe the person screaming had simply passed out. Maybe they were just getting too far away to hear. Either way, the silence was better. Much better. She just hoped it would last.

* * *

 **Argent Gaunt, 18  
** **District One**

How long was this going to last? Argent made a show of glancing at the sun, which was now high overhead. If he'd had a watch, he would be tapping it impatiently. It had been hours since the bloodbath, but both Snap and Valkyrie seemed content to sit around and sort their supplies. They now had a neat pile of food, a pile of water, and a pile of miscellaneous supplies – rope, matches, medical supplies, and so on. But they were no closer to finding any of the other tributes.

"Congratulations," Argent growled when the two of them seemed to have finished. "You've just made it that much easier for anyone else to waltz in and simply take what they want. Now they won't even have to dig through the garbage first."

Valkyrie smirked. "You'd think so, wouldn't you." She took a small vial from one of the packages of medical supplies. "Any idea what this is?"

Argent shook his head. The liquid was clear, but aside from that, it could be anything. It didn't seem to be labeled, but maybe that meant she had taken the label off. "Medicine?" Argent answered vaguely.

Valkyrie shook her head. "Poison."

"And that helps us because…"

"Because there are only three of us, genius. With only three of us, there's no way we can afford to leave someone here to guard the supplies while we're out hunting. Even if we left everything buried, people would still be able to take what they wanted; it would just take them a little longer. So, instead, we leave the supplies out in the open – with a little surprise."

"You want to poison the supplies?" Snap asked skeptically.

"Not all of them," Valkyrie reasoned. "Just enough of them that anyone who takes something will have a _chance_ of being poisoned. Obviously, we can't poison it all. We need it. So we also need a way to keep track of which stuff is tainted, and which isn't."

Snap shook his head. "How much of that do we have?"

"Just this bottle."

"Then I'd say don't bother with the food. It's the water people will be after in this heat, with this garbage starting to stink in the sun and with these jumpsuits being as warm as they are. They'll need water more than food, so we use that."

Valkyrie nodded. "I like it. So how do we tell which ones we've poisoned without letting on?"

Snap studied a bottle for a moment. "See these numbers on the bottom? These seven digits, looks like a code of sorts? We could use those. Ends in an even number, tainted. Ends in an odd number, safe. Or vice versa." He chuckled. "We just need to remember which we picked."

Valkyrie thought for a moment. "Four letters in 'safe.' That's even. Let's go with evens are safe."

"Sounds good," Snap agreed. "Let's get sorting."

Argent didn't even bother trying to contain a groan as the two of them got to work. This was going to take _forever_! And for what? The chance that someone who happened to come along _might_ get poisoned. Where was the sport in that? He almost wished he _had_ turned traitor and joined Kekoa's group. They were probably _doing_ something.

* * *

 **Kekoa Palu, 18  
** **District Four**

Kekoa couldn't help a smile as he, Apple, and Vino collapsed behind a small pile of garbage. With any luck, the Gamemakers would be content with what they'd done during the bloodbath, and would let them rest the remainder of the day. Between them, they had two kills, after all – both of them Careers.

Vino clapped Kekoa on the back as he took a seat beside him. "Not bad, if I say so myself."

"Not bad at all," Kekoa agreed. "You did well, too, Apple," he added. He didn't want her to feel left out. Sure, she hadn't killed, but she'd managed to survive against Mora until he could reach her. That certainly counted for something.

Apple, however, was sitting silently, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Finally, she spoke. "He was just trying to find something."

"Who?" Vino asked.

Apple looked up. "Ethan. He was looking through the supplies on the ground, and the other boy just … just … It happened too quickly. I didn't even see it coming. I should have. I could have shouted to him to get up, to get away, but…"

Kekoa scooted a little closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's not your fault. He was all the way on the other side of the circle. There's nothing you could have done. It was just … bad luck."

"Bad luck," Apple repeated, almost spitting the words. "That's the worst part of it. If it had been me over there, instead, it would be me. _I'd_ be the one who was dead. And he'd be alive."

Vino shrugged. "You're probably right. But aren't you glad it turned out this way, instead?"

Kekoa glared. That was _not_ going to help. Apple shook her head, almost in tears. "I … I guess so. But that's even worse. He's dead, and I'm _happy_ he's dead. Grateful. Grateful that it wasn't me, instead. How sick is that?"

"That's perfectly normal," Kekoa insisted.

"Normal?" Apple spat back. "What would either of you two even know about what's _normal_? Six people are _dead_. Six kids are dead, and you think any of this is normal?"

Kekoa gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Apple, calm down. Think it through. If Ethan could see you now, what would he want? Would he want you to sit here wishing you'd been able to save him? Would he want you to cry? Or would he want you to keep fighting, to survive, to make it back to District Eleven?"

Even as he said it, however, he knew how empty the words sounded. Because in order for her to make it back to District Eleven, he would have to die. And in order for him to make it back, _she_ would have to die. Neither of those was a good option, but saying that out loud would do nothing to change it. Apple shook her head slowly. " _He_ wanted to make it back."

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18  
** **District Eleven**

It hurt to say it, but it was true. Ethan had never wanted _her_ to be the one to make it back to Eleven. He had wanted to go home, just like the rest of them. If it had come down to her life or his, he would have chosen his own. And so would she. She would have chosen her life over his, in a pinch. Most of the other tributes would have done the same.

So why did it hurt so much?

It wasn't even as if she'd had a choice. She wouldn't have been able to save him even if she'd tried. But she _hadn't_ tried. She hadn't even tried to avenge his death. It hadn't even _occurred_ to her to race across the circle and try to kill the boy from One. She'd been busy enough trying to keep herself alive.

"Look, we'll get even," Vino promised, as if he'd read her thoughts. "Argent killed your district partner. We killed his. And we're going to kill him. That's a promise."

Kekoa raised an eyebrow. He hadn't agreed to that. But the thought _did_ make her feel a little better. She hated that, but it was something. It was something to work towards.

"Maybe not right away," Kekoa reasoned. "There are still three of them, after all."

Vino shrugged. "Three of them, three of us. You think we're ever going to get better odds than that?"

Kekoa shook his head. "Maybe not. But we have time. We have supplies. Weapons. We have time to come up with a better plan than just rushing at them and hoping for the best."

Vino chuckled. "Seemed to work just fine during the bloodbath."

"Only because you had the element of surprise on your side. Clementine trusted you. The other Careers won't make that mistake again – and neither will we."

There it was again – that tone in his voice. As they were running from the bloodbath, Kekoa had warned Vino not to think for one second that they trusted him. Apple looked away. Maybe Kekoa didn't trust him, but Vino _had_ saved their lives. That counted for something, didn't it?

"Why _did_ you decide to join us?" Apple asked softly.

Vino shrugged. "Someone was going to, so I figured it might as well be me. I saw the chance to take out one of the stronger tributes in the Games, and I took it."

"You mean Clementine?" Kekoa asked.

"And Mora," Vino agreed.

" _I_ killed Mora," Kekoa pointed out.

"And you think you would've had the chance if I hadn't been stalling, pretending I was trying to find a weapon?" Vino countered. "You could have been fighting the two of us rather than just her. How do you think that would have turned out?"

Kekoa didn't answer that. He didn't have to. Vino leaned back a little against the pile of garbage and shrugged. "Besides, the rest of the Career pack are pains in the ass. Argent's full of himself, and Snap's just trying to prove he can cut it with the rest of the pack. And don't get me _started_ on my district partner." He chuckled, reaching into one of the bags they'd taken from the bloodbath and pulling out a pack of crackers. "Good thing it's only a matter of time before we're rid of them for good."

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

It was probably a good thing they'd decided to rest a while before setting out. Argent was pacing restlessly, but if they'd set out immediately, he would probably have suggested going after Kekoa and his pack. And while that was something they would have to do eventually, there was no reason it needed to happen _now_. The fight during the bloodbath would probably be enough to satisfy the audience for a while. They could afford to pick some easier targets for the moment.

Besides, when that fight eventually came, chances were good that not all three of them would come out of it alive. And even if they managed to kill Kekoa and his allies without taking any losses themselves, they wouldn't be in the best shape. They might be injured, which could be deadly this early in the Games. Not that being injured in the Games was _ever_ a good thing, of course, but being injured at the _start_ of the Games was particularly bad.

Yes, that was a good reason not to go after Kekoa. Not to go after _Vino_. She still couldn't quite believe that her district partner had been the one to turn on them. To turn on _her_. Yes, she'd thought about leaving the Career pack herself, but that was different. She had never wanted to be here. He had.

Hadn't he?

Valkyrie let that thought sit for a moment. She couldn't remember anything during training, anything on the train or even during the reaping that had hinted that Vino was anything other than a typical Career. That he wanted anything more than to be in the Games. And teaming up with Kekoa didn't necessarily mean that he didn't want to be there. Just that he hadn't wanted to be a part of the Career pack.

Maybe it was Argent. He was a bit of a pain, after all. Impatient, arrogant, hot-tempered. But at least he was _competent._ Now Vino was left with Kekoa and a girl from Eleven who had no idea what she was doing, while she had…

Argent. She had Argent and Snap. That was it. Maybe they weren't the ideal allies, but they were the ones she had left. And at least Snap had proven that he was perfectly willing to kill, even if he'd gone a bit overboard. That was something – something more than Apple had done. Still…

"Come _on_!" Argent insisted as they finally finished. "We should get going already." He already had a pack of supplies slung over his back, a spear in one hand and a short sword in the other. Valkyrie turned to Snap, who shrugged. He was holding a large mace, and a few knives were tucked into his pockets.

Valkyrie nodded and slung a quiver of arrows across her back, chose a sturdy longbow that had been buried deep beneath the garbage, and tucked a large knife in her pocket. "All right. Which way do you think we should look first?" There didn't seem to be much as far as landmarks. Piles of garbage were scattered in every direction, but there wasn't one obvious place that would offer shelter for tributes trying to avoid detection.

"Well, we definitely don't want to get lost," Snap pointed out. "All this garbage would make it easy to get disoriented, so we should pick a direction and stick with it as well as we can. It's early afternoon, which makes that way west. So east … north … south." He pointed at each direction in turn. "What do we do? Flip a coin?"

Valkyrie shrugged. "Got a preference?"

He did. She knew he did. He was just trying not to be obvious about it. "South?" Snap offered.

Argent raised an eyebrow. "Why south?"

Valkyrie shrugged. "What's wrong with south? It's as good a direction as any. Feels sort of like going downhill."

Argent rolled his eyes and muttered something about taking the easy path, but as soon as he looked away, Snap glanced in her direction and nodded. South. The opposite direction from where his district partner had run. She would have to die eventually, of course, but there was no reason they had to be the ones to kill her. Not when there were plenty of other tributes to choose from.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

At least there were plenty of piles of garbage to choose from. Plenty of places to hide, if she happened to see someone coming, and plenty of places where there might be supplies hidden under all the garbage. There were plenty of things on top, of course. Plenty of things that could be used as a weapon, in a pinch. If nothing else, practically anything in the piles could be thrown at an attacker, or used to hit them with if they got too close.

In fact, she'd already found several objects that she could use as a weapon – a large fork with one of the prongs missing, a broken table leg that was as good as a club, and a very blunt knife that might deter someone from attacking if they only saw it from a distance. Maybe it wasn't much – certainly compared to what some of the others would have, if they'd gotten more from the bloodbath – but it was enough to provide some protection.

The more pressing concern was food, and especially water. There was plenty of sludge and grime covering the ground – and by now covering her boots and the legs of her jumpsuit. But she didn't dare drink that. She wasn't _that_ desperate. And despite the junk that was piled all around her, not much of it seemed to be food. The food she _had_ managed to find was moldy and rotten. A mushy tomato, a half-eaten moldy sandwich, a brown banana peel. The sort of stuff you'd expect to find in the garbage.

Which, of course, was exactly where they were. Brindle sighed as she plopped down behind one of the shorter piles of garbage. If the other tributes came looking – no, _when_ the other tributes came looking – they would probably assume that the tributes would be hiding behind the larger piles. Probably. Well, maybe. It was as good a reason as any to stop and rest for a while. The sun was already starting to sink in the sky. She was hot. She was tired. Everything smelled. And were those … flies? Yes, a large group of flies nearby, buzzing around something.

Okay. Brindle forced herself to her feet and made her way over to investigate. If there were flies, maybe there was food. They had to eat _something_ , after all.

The 'something,' however, was a rotting animal corpse. There wasn't even enough left to tell what it was supposed to have been. Some sort of four-legged, furry creature. Maybe a dog, or a fox, or something of that sort.

Maybe. Not that it mattered. Any meat left on it would be rotten by now, and covered in disease from the flies. She wasn't desperate enough to chance that. Not yet. Brindle covered her nose and mouth and headed in the opposite direction. Maybe one of the large piles of garbage would be better, after all.

* * *

 **Ari Zeno, 17  
** **District Three**

They'd certainly made the right decision when they'd settled down on one of the larger piles of garbage. Ari, Narra, and Derek had been keeping themselves busy sorting through the junk on the pile. Most of it was useless – loose pieces of wood, scraps of fabric, bits of plastic that weren't really large enough to make anything useful out of.

But buried beneath the layers of useless … well, junk … were a few useful trinkets. In addition to the supplies they'd gathered during the bloodbath, they'd managed to find another knife – although this one was a bit duller – a box of matches with three matches left, and a watch he was pretty sure was more or less accurate. Derek had taken the knife, Narra the matches, and he was wearing the watch. It was almost 7:30 – if the watch was accurate, of course – and the sun was dipping lower, almost below the horizon.

"I wonder what'll happen at night," Narra said quietly, almost to herself.

Derek turned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if this place is anything like the forest, things will certainly change once the sun goes down. Night is when everything really starts to come alive. There might be all sorts of animals in here, hiding, waiting for the right time to come out and hunt."

"All the more reason to stay alert," Ari pointed out. "You're right that it's not just the tributes we have to worry about." In fact, a group like theirs would probably make a tempting target if the Gamemakers decided it was time to use the mutts to get things moving. They'd made it out of the bloodbath alive and unscathed. They had weapons. Plenty of supplies. They had pretty much everything going for them – which meant the Gamemakers might decide it was time for something to go wrong.

Unless they gave the Gamemakers a reason _not_ to target them.

Ari leaned in close to the others. "That means it might also be the perfect time for _us_ to make a move."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" Clearly, he'd been counting on staying in one place for a while. But they'd been resting for a while between taking turns digging through the rubbish. They were about as alert as they could hope to be. Maybe it _was_ time to take the initiative. Or at least _look_ like they were taking the initiative.

Before he could answer Derek, however, they were interrupted by the sound of the Capitol anthem echoing across the arena. Ari glanced at his watch. He hadn't been expecting this just yet. Usually, they let it get a bit darker first. But maybe Narra had been on the right track, after all. Maybe the Gamemakers were planning something special once it actually got dark, and maybe now was a better time to get this out of the way. Ari leaned back against the pile of debris. "All right, then. Let's see who we're still up against."

* * *

 **Derek Overholt, 17  
** **District Twelve**

The first face – the girl from One – was a bit of a surprise. They'd seen some of the Careers fighting as they'd gathered up supplies, but part of him still hadn't really expected any of them to be _killed_. Silly, maybe, but Careers always seemed so strong, so invulnerable. The idea that any of them would actually be killed during the bloodbath was still rather surprising.

Hesper's face quickly followed. Derek glanced over at Ari, who was shaking his head as if he'd expected her to make it a bit farther. The girl from Four was next. _Two_ Careers? From the same pack, no less. Kekoa's pack seemed to have made quite a dent in the main Career pack. Which was all the better for them, of course. The fewer Careers were hunting them down, the better.

Then came Narra's district partner, Basil. Narra looked away, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. Derek opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. What was he supposed to say? They didn't even have any way of knowing how Basil had died. Or Hesper, for that matter. Chances were, they would never know, unless one of them was the one to make it out of the arena alive.

The boy from Eleven was next. So Kekoa's pack hadn't made it out of the fight without a loss of their own. Derek couldn't help a smile. Both Career packs had taken a hit, while the three of them were still going strong.

His smile faded, however, when he saw the last face. Maybe he should have seen it coming. After all, they'd heard six cannons, and there was only one district left after Eleven. Obviously, it had to be Sienna. Still, it hurt to see her face – even more than he'd imagined it would. They hadn't really been close, but they were from the same district. That counted for something. If he couldn't make it home, the thought that maybe she would had provided at least a little comfort.

Now that thought was gone. For all of them. Ari shook his head, apparently thinking the same. "Looks like it's just us, then. For our districts, that is. Who would've thought?"

Narra looked up. "We would. We chose each other for allies, rather than our own district partners, after all."

She was right. But that didn't make it any better. Because in order for him to win, there were seventeen more tributes whose faces would have to appear in the sky, including both Narra and Ari. He didn't _want_ them to die. He'd never wanted _anyone_ to die.

It wasn't fair.

Derek took a deep breath. Of course it wasn't fair. But it was the way things were now. His district partner was gone. Sienna was dead. He wasn't. And he would have to live with that if he wanted a chance of making it out of the arena. So he turned to Ari. "What were you saying about making a move?"

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16  
** **District Eight**

"Looks like we made the right move," Selwyn observed. "With the Careers, that is. Two of them from the main pack dead, along with one of the pair from Eleven. Not bad at all, huh, Dusty?"

Dusty was silent, still staring at the sky. "She's dead. Sienna's dead."

Selwyn nodded. "We knew that was a possibility when she didn't find us."

"Of course," Dusty agreed. "It's just … different, knowing it for sure. I was still hoping she'd turn up, but…"

"But now it's just us. Just two kids from District Eight, trying to survive another day. Oh, and completely crippling the Career packs."

Dusty finally chuckled a little. "That _was_ a pretty good idea, wasn't it. I wonder who finally took the bait."

"I guess we'll find out eventually," Selwyn reasoned. The pair of them hadn't looked back after running from the bloodbath – not even long enough to see whether their ally had been coming. Maybe he should have felt guilty for that, but relief that he was still alive was enough to outweigh whatever regret he might have about not staying to protect his ally.

Besides, he still had Dusty. And between her and Sienna, Dusty was certainly the more useful. It had been her idea, after all, to try to sow some seeds of distrust among the Careers during the interviews, to try to convince the audience that _someone_ was going to turn on the Career pack. And apparently someone had.

But who?

Maybe it didn't matter – not right now, at least. If it was someone who was still alive, that meant the packs would be split three and three. If the traitor was already dead, it would be a four-two split. Either one of those things was better than two Career packs operating at full strength.

Selwyn stretched out against the base of the garbage pile they'd settled down on. "What would you say to getting some rest? Think six deaths is enough for them to leave us alone for a while?"

"Maybe," Dusty answered noncommittally. "Yes, there were six deaths, but _we_ didn't kill anyone."

"Not directly, maybe," Selwyn reasoned. "But we certainly played a part."

Dusty nodded. "Tell you what. You get some rest, and I'll keep watch for a while."

He certainly wasn't going to argue with that. If something _was_ going to happen during the night, the Gamemakers would probably give them at least a little time. Time to settle down. Time for the Gamemakers to lull them into a sense of security, make them think they were safe before…

Before what? There was no way of knowing. But whatever it was, they would be better equipped to face it if they got some rest first. Selwyn lay down, but as he closed his eyes, he caught Dusty glancing up at the sky again, as if expecting to still see their ally's face there among the stars.

Selwyn closed his eyes. Sienna was dead. There was nothing they could do about that. All they could do now was try to keep each other alive. That would be more than enough to keep them busy.

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

He could have kept himself busy doing this for days, but the boy wasn't likely to last that long. Ludwig took a step back, using the last of the light from the tributes' faces in the sky to admire his handiwork. The boy in front of him, still dangling from the bar that ran along the train, was barely conscious. His body was as limp as an old rag doll and almost as tattered. His clothes had been torn and burned away, leaving him with only the barest of coverings. Patches of his skin were charred, and some had been burnt away entirely, exposing the flesh beneath. It was almost too much for the boy to bear.

Almost. But not quite. He was still alive – barely. Oh, he would certainly never recover. At this point, even if he were to somehow escape, he would be dead within hours. He would never be able to walk with his legs in this state, and fighting … well, fighting was long out of the question. Too many of his bones had been broken. He would never be able to grip a weapon even if he had the opportunity.

No, he only had one use left: to lure in Ludwig's next victim. Ludwig slowly made his way to the boy's side. The younger boy barely had the strength left to flinch away from his touch. Ludwig removed the rag that he'd stuffed in the boy's mouth to muffle his screams, then poured a little water down his throat. It probably seemed like a waste, but he needed the boy to scream, and one couldn't do that on a parched throat. Not loudly enough to attract anyone else, at least.

The boy tried to say something, but he couldn't form the words. Not yet. "What was that?" Ludwig taunted. "Speak up. I couldn't quite hear you."

"Please." The boy's voice was faint, but finally audible. "Please…"

"Please what?" He loved this part. It always came to this, in the end. In the end, they only wanted one thing: an end to the pain. And now there was only one way to get it.

"Just … just kill me."

Ludwig shook his head. "Not yet." Then he went back to work, this time allowing the boy's screams to echo through the night, filling the ears of anyone who might be close enough to hear. It was only a matter of time before someone else decided to come answer the call.

He could only hope it happened _before_ the boy inevitably expired. He didn't have much strength left, but Ludwig hoped he would hold on. If he didn't, of course, he could always go out and _find_ his next victim, but it would be so much quicker, so much _easier_ to simply let them come to him.

A part of him hoped that it would be Brindle, but that was probably too much to hope for. Of course, he could have gone after her at the start, but then he couldn't have taken his time. The audience expected deaths during the bloodbath to be quick, so that they could get on with the rest of the Games. The reason he'd been able to draw this one out was because he'd already killed Basil. If he'd gone after Brindle immediately, he wouldn't have that luxury. But if she came now…

Part of him already knew, though, that she wouldn't. Even if she was nearby, she wasn't the sort to risk her life for nothing. Not really. Oh, she could boast. She could pretend. She could rail on about the injustices of the Captiol and how she was willing to give her life for her cause, but when it came right down to it, she wanted to _live_. He'd caught a glimpse of her fleeing the fighting at the bloodbath without so much as a scratch. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she was afraid.

Eventually, he would use that against her. But not yet. Not until she was ready. Then he would make sure that she knew exactly what she had allowed to happen. Basil's body still lay on the ground nearby, uncollected by the hovercraft. Once Zion died, his body would remain as a testament to Ludwig's work. Whoever came to help would know what had happened because they had arrived too late. And that would be just as bad as any pain he could inflict.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

She wished there was a way to stop the screaming. Finch fought the urge to cover her ears in protest. It would just look silly, and there was no way it would drown out the sound. There was only one person it could be, after all. That was the direction the boy from Nine had gone, dragging Zion along with him. Those screams were coming from her district partner.

But what was she supposed to do about it? Finch glanced over at Sam, who looked just as uncomfortable. "Do you think we should…?"

"What?" Sam asked, as if giving voice to Finch's own thoughts. "What, exactly, are you suggesting we do? Storm over there and stop him from doing … whatever he's doing? With _what_? What are we supposed to use to fight him?"

"If we catch him by surprise—"

"Then what? You saw what he did to those two boys during the bloodbath."

"One of 'those two boys' is my district partner. His name's Zion, and he's _still alive._ " There had been no cannons since the bloodbath. Zion's face hadn't appeared in the sky. "That's him screaming, and I'm … I'm just _sitting here_."

"Because there's nothing you can do for him," Sam reasoned. "Sometimes it's best to just let things be."

She was right. There was nothing they could do. Not without any weapons to fight with. They had no food. No water. They hadn't eaten anything all day – well, not since breakfast, at least. She probably wasn't thinking clearly. She was tired, of course, but how was she supposed to sleep when she could still hear him?

Slowly, Sam got to her feet. "Where are you going?" Finch asked.

"We obviously aren't going to be able to get any sleep here. So we might as well keep moving – _away_ from those screams. Whatever's going on over there, we don't want anything to do with it. And we certainly don't want it to happen to _us_."

"But if someone doesn't do something—"

"Then what? Maybe the Gamemakers will step in and stop him. Or maybe someone else will hear him – someone who actually _has_ weapons or a big enough group to take him on. That's not _us_ , Finch. We can't do anything."

Can't. That word made it easier. It wasn't that they _wouldn't_ do anything, or that they were unwilling to step in and try to help her district partner. Saying that they _couldn't_ instead shifted the blame. But the truth of the matter was, it was their own fault they weren't in a position to help. The reason they didn't have weapons was because _they_ hadn't grabbed any. The reason they weren't in a position to fight was because _they_ hadn't taken steps to make sure they were prepared. It was still their fault.

 _Her_ fault.

Slowly, Finch got to her feet and followed Sam. There was nothing else to do. Nothing else she _could_ do. All she could do now was walk away.

* * *

 **Brindel Tanner, 38  
** **District Ten Mentor**

"Don't you dare," Brindel muttered at the screen, even though she knew that they couldn't hear her. Some of the cameras were trained on Finch walking away, abandoning her district partner to his fate. Most of the rest focused either on Ludwig and Zion or on the Careers who were still heading south. But every now and then, there was an image of some of the other tributes, and she'd seen what they hadn't.

Barnabas and Elle had stopped a while ago. They'd been heading in the opposite direction from the screams, but they hadn't gotten far. Once the screams had died down earlier, they hadn't been in much of a rush. But that meant that they were still close enough to hear. Barnabas had volunteered to take the first shift, and was pacing restlessly on his stunted legs, holding the knife that Elle had managed to grab at the start. Elle was lying on the ground, her eyes closed, her hands over her ears, pretending to sleep.

She wasn't pretending very well.

Neither was Barnabas. There was a look in his eyes, as much as she didn't want to see it. He'd made up his mind. He was just waiting for Elle to fall asleep. Just waiting for the right moment when he could slip away. He didn't want to risk her life, too. They only had one weapon, after all. It would be stupid for both of them to go.

Brindel leaned back in her chair, quietly sipping a drink. It was stupid for _either_ of them to go. Stupid and stubborn and so very human. That was what Ludwig was exploiting, in the end. He was preying on human nature itself. Even in the Games, most people still held onto that basic human instinct to try to end suffering when they could. Most tributes still had the decency to try to make their kills quickly.

But there were exceptions. There were always exceptions. Clearly, Ludwig was one. But Barnabas wasn't. As silently as he could manage amid the garbage, he took one step back towards the screams. Then another. Elle stirred. Silently, Brindel waited, hoping she would keep her eyes shut. That she would simply let him leave. He was going; that much was obvious. But that didn't mean _both_ of them had to.

Just as Barnabas took another step, however, Elle sat up. "Are y-you l-l-leaving?"


	29. Night One: Human Nature

**Night One  
** **Human Nature**

* * *

 **Elva Dent, 39  
** **District Six Mentor**

She didn't want to do it. Elva sank back into her chair, pulling her knees to her chest and wishing she could disappear. She was alone in her room, but that didn't make it any better. The fact that no one knew what she had done – not yet – didn't change anything. She had made her move, and, for better or worse, she would have to live with it.

For better or worse. At this point, it was almost certainly 'worse.' It was the only move left to her, but that didn't make it a good one. She had tried to tell herself that it was what any of the others would have done, if they'd thought of it. But the fact was that they _hadn't_. Either they hadn't thought of it, or they'd dismissed the idea. She was the only one who had chosen to act.

What did that say about them?

What did that say about _her_?

Elva held her breath as the girl from Ten stirred. "Are y-you l-l-leaving?" she stammered, even though the answer was obvious. The boy, Barnabas, held a knife in his hands. The only weapon they had. He clearly meant to leave, to do something about the screams in the distance, even if the only protection he had was a knife. One tiny weapon – that was all. And he was still willing to take the risk.

But he wasn't willing to risk his district partner's life. Not yet, at least. He stopped, turning back to Elle. "Go back to sleep. Let me handle this."

Elle scrambled to her feet. "No."

"What do you mean?" He knew what she meant. He had to. But maybe he wanted to hear it for himself. Maybe he was hoping that saying it out loud would show her just how absurd of an idea it was.

"I-I-I'm c-coming with y-you," Elle protested.

Barnabas shook his head. "Not a chance."

Elle crossed her arms over her chest. "Th-think you c-c-can s-stop me?"

Barnabas opened his mouth, then closed it again. Maybe thinking better of his response. Despite her age, Elle was taller. Faster. If she was determined to tag along, there wasn't much that he could do to stop her. "You don't have a weapon."

"You _b-barely_ h-have a w-weapon," Elle shot back. "What d-d-do y-you th-think you're g-g-going to b-be able t-to d-d-do?"

"I don't know," Barnabas admitted. And there it was. He didn't really know what he was doing. He was acting on instinct – and his instincts were good. Kind. Exactly the sort of instincts that were deadly in the Games.

Exactly the sort of instincts she was about to exploit.

* * *

 **Elle Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

"I don't know," Barnabas repeated. "I just … I can't just sit here and…"

"And y-you th-think I c-c-can?" Elle asked quietly. She could hear him, too, after all – the boy screaming in the distance. It had been one thing this morning. But he was still alive. Still screaming. This wasn't a trick. It wasn't someone trying to lure them in by pretending to be injured. If so, they would have figured out by now that it wasn't working. They would have given up. This was real. Someone was injured. Dying. And they needed either help or…

Or a quick death. That was what Barnabas was hoping for, probably. That it was just one person out there, injured, waiting for someone to end their pain. But they both knew that wasn't likely. More likely, it was two people – one injured, the other…

The other _doing_ the injuring. Hurting the other one. Torturing them. And that was worse, but also more dangerous. Elle took a step closer to Barnabas. "Either w-we b-b-both g-go, or n-neither of us d-d-does."

Barnabas tucked the knife back into his pocket. "Then I don't think either of us should. Not without something more than this." Just as he patted his pocket, however, there was a soft beeping sound. Elle glanced up to see a flashing light, coming from a parachute that was floating down gently towards them.

Elle beamed as it landed beside them. Quickly, she tore open the packaging to reveal a pair of daggers. "L-looks l-like s-s-s-omeone out th-there ag-grees with y-you," she offered, handing one of the daggers to Barnabas. The sponsors wouldn't have sent something like this unless they were going to need them. And with this sort of timing, there was only one place they were meant to go.

Barnabas held the dagger up, examining it in the light of the moon that was rising over one of the piles of garbage. "I guess so," he agreed quietly. "I don't suppose there's any talking you out of it now."

Elle shook her head. "Either w-we b-both g-g-go or—"

"Or neither of us," Barnabas finished. "I guess it's both of us, then." And together, they headed off towards the sound of the screams.

The screams had faded by the time they got closer, but there still hadn't been a cannon. Whoever was there was still alive – at least for the moment. Elle glanced over at Barnabas as they neared what appeared to be an old train car. "D-do you th-think that's wh-wh-where th-they are?" she whispered.

Barnabas shrugged helplessly. "Your guess is as good as mine." The screams had been silent for a few moments now, but if anything, that was even more reason to be cautious. Still, they had come this far…

Carefully, the two of them crept closer. Closer. There didn't seem to be anyone around – at least, not until they circled around to the other side of the train car. It was hard to see in the dim light from the moon, but she could at last make out two figures, some sort of hoods covering their heads. They seemed to be hanging from some sort of bar that ran along the train car. But that didn't make any sense…

Barnabas, however, was already headed straight for them, dagger in hand, ready to cut them free. Elle quickly caught up with him, reaching up to cut the ropes that held the figure on the end. The boy tumbled to the ground, gasping as she removed his hood. He was still alive.

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

The boy on the end was still alive, judging by the gasps as Elle cut the ropes around his wrists. Barnabas reached up to cut the other figure free, only to find there was no rope. But what––?

His thoughts were interrupted as the figure's arms came down, one of them wrapping around Barnabas' neck and the other tearing off his own hood to reveal the boy from Nine. He dragged Barnabas to the ground, reaching for the dagger that Barnabas had dropped in surprise. "Not one step closer," he threatened, his voice eerily calm.

But the words weren't directed at Barnabas. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elle, dagger in hand, pointing her weapon shakily at the older boy. The boy from Nine yanked Barnabas roughly to his feet, the dagger now pressed against Barnabas' throat. "You want me to kill him right here?"

Elle took a step backwards, her head shaking, her eyes wide with terror. This wasn't how she had expected this to go – and it certainly wasn't what he'd been expecting, either. When the sponsors had sent the daggers, he'd assumed that they would have the upper hand. Why else would the sponsors want to send them here? Why else would _Brindel_ want to send them here?

The boy's arm pressed tightly against his throat. "Good girl," the boy from Nine hissed. "Now drop your weapon, and get over here."

Barnabas shook his head – or, at least, tried to. The boy was holding him too tightly. "Run!" he gasped, his voice barley a faint wheeze. He couldn't breathe. He was as good as dead now; the boy had him exactly where he'd wanted him. But that didn't mean that Elle had to die, too.

For a moment, Elle stood there, frozen. Thinking. Deciding. Barnabas' vision was starting to blur. His lungs ached. _Just run. Please run._

Then she did. As fast as she could, she turned and ran back the way they had come. She didn't look back. She didn't dare. She simply disappeared into the darkness. As consciousness faded, Barnabas smiled a little. Elle was safe. That was something.

The arm left his throat, and he could breathe again. Air came in ragged gasps as he sank to the ground, barely conscious. "Well," the boy from Nine muttered. "She was even more of a coward than I thought." He gave Barnabas a kick. "I guess I'm stuck with you."

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

He didn't get a reply. Not that he'd been expecting one. The boy had barely had the strength to tell his district partner to run for it. Ludwig hadn't expected her to actually _do_ it. He'd expected her to stay, to fight for her ally's life, even if it got her killed. Clearly, he'd overestimated her. She wasn't even worth chasing down – not when he had a perfectly good toy lying right in front of him.

First, of course, he would have to deal with the last one. The boy from Six hadn't moved from where he'd fallen when the girl had cut him free. He didn't have the strength. He was barely conscious. He moaned a little as Ludwig approached, but that was it. He was too far gone to put up a struggle.

Then he saw the dagger in Ludwig's hand. "Please."

His voice was barely audible, but it was enough to bring a smile to Ludwig's face. "One more time," Ludwig prompted. "A little louder. For all the folks at home, you know."

"Please," the boy hissed. "Please just do it."

Ludwig nodded. "As you wish." And he plunged the dagger deep into the boy's chest.

The cannon was immediate, and was enough to stir the boy from Ten back to consciousness. He was almost to his feet by the time Ludwig reached him, dagger in hand, and delivered a sharp kick to his side. The boy keeled over again, clutching his side, trying to keep the tears in his eyes from showing. Trying so hard to stay strong.

That wouldn't last long. It never did. Ludwig dragged the body of the boy from Six over to the side of the train car and laid it alongside the other body – the boy from Seven. Then he turned his attention back to the boy from Ten, quickly binding his hands and feet. That would give him time – time to figure out what he wanted to do with this one.

Ludwig shook his head as he wiped the blood from the boy's dagger. _His_ dagger now. It had almost been too easy. Too easy to find another victim. Too easy to lure in someone who was willing to risk his life for … what? To stop someone else from screaming? What had he been hoping to accomplish? An end to a little suffering?

Ludwig gave the boy another kick, drawing out a quiet moan. He had accomplished nothing. He'd only taken the other boy's suffering and shifted the target squarely onto himself. He'd sacrificed himself for nothing. And Ludwig intended to make sure that he knew it.

* * *

 **Snap Shelby, 18  
** **District Five**

 _Boom._ The sound of the cannon echoed through the arena as he and the other Careers continued to head south. Snap glanced at his companions. The 'other Careers' were down to two, and neither of them seemed particularly happy that someone _else_ had managed to make a kill. "Damn," Valkyrie muttered. "I guess someone else has been busy, too."

Snap shrugged. "Less work for us in the long run, right?"

"But not as many kills," Argent pointed out.

Snap chuckled. "Hoping to break the record, were you?" That didn't seem particularly likely. It was a record currently held by his own mentor, Mina, a fact that probably irritated the Careers because … well, because she wasn't one. But in order to tie her record – nine kills – Argent would need eight more. Valkyrie would need nine, since she didn't have a single kill to her name yet.

He would need eight himself, but he wasn't concerned with records. As long as he made it out of the Games alive, he didn't care how many tributes he personally had to kill. In the end, it didn't really make much of a difference _who_ killed them. If he hadn't taken care of the girl from Twelve, someone else would have. Someone would have killed her eventually, so the fact that it was him … It didn't really matter, did it?

Of course, he wasn't in it for the glory. He hadn't _wanted_ to be here. Maybe to the others – the ones who had trained for this their whole lives – simply winning wasn't enough. Even winning a Quarter Quell wouldn't be enough. They had to win in such a spectacular fashion that no one would ever doubt their place among the best of the best. And that … that was a weakness he could take advantage of. It would make them rash, desperate to do anything that might set them apart.

Argent was glaring at him. "I'm not worried about that record." It was a lie, and a fairly obvious one, at that. He wanted every record he could get. And if killing almost half of the remaining tributes himself was what it was going to take to get it, that was what he would want to do.

Valkyrie, on the other hand, was silent. Valkyrie, who hadn't killed anyone during the bloodbath, who had watched while he'd killed the girl from Twelve. What was her game? Was she trying to appear less competent so that he wouldn't consider her as much of a threat? Or was she simply waiting for the right time to make her move?

Snap shook the thought from his head. He couldn't afford to get too jumpy. Not yet. Not this early in the Games. There were only three of them, after all. His performance during the bloodbath had certainly been enough to prove that he was worthy of remaining with the pack.

And as much as it might annoy Argent, they needed each other right now. Kekoa's pack was still out there somewhere, and unless the most recent cannon had belonged to one of them, there were still three tributes in his pack. And at least one other group of three, if he had his numbers right. For now, the best move for all of them was to stick together.

* * *

 **Narra Tarot, 14  
** **District Seven**

She was beginning to wonder whether they'd made the right move. Narra, Ari, and Derek sat silently behind a pile of garbage, listening as the Careers talked. Frozen. Waiting. Hoping that they were being quiet enough, that none of the Careers would think to look behind this particular pile.

It had been Ari's idea to head back towards the cornucopia. Well, towards where the cornucopia _should_ have been. Derek had been quick to point out that they had all the supplies they needed, but it wasn't supplies that Ari had been hoping to find when they got there. The Careers would usually leave a tribute at the cornucopia to guard the supplies, and Ari had suggested that the three of them would be able to handle one Career.

What they _hadn't_ counted on was the Careers choosing this exact direction to explore. There had always been a chance of it, of course. They had to pick _some_ direction, and they'd happened to pick this one. Narra glanced over at Derek, whose eyes were wide. But Ari seemed to be … smiling. Why?

Maybe he figured that this meant he was right, that there was still a Career at the cornucopia. The boy from Two, after all, was missing from the Career group. But that meant one of three things. He might be at the cornucopia. He might have been the one to turn on the pack and join the other group of Careers. Or that last cannon might have been his.

But the other three had seemed surprised by the cannon – or, at least, hadn't seemed to expect it. So if he was dead, it probably wasn't their doing. Maybe someone else had the same idea Ari had. Or maybe he was still alive. But none of those things seemed worth smiling about.

Slowly, _so_ slowly, the Careers kept heading south, past the pile of garbage, out of sight, out of earshot. Finally, Derek breathed a sigh of relief. Ari was still grinning. By now, Derek had noticed, as well. "What are you smiling about?" he whispered once they were certain the Careers couldn't hear them.

Ari shrugged. "Just relieved that no mutts decided to show up and force us out of hiding."

 _Don't give them any ideas._ That was the first thought that sprang to her mind. But it was quickly followed by another. Certainly it would have occurred to the Gamemakers to drive them together. The fact that they _hadn't_ could only mean they had something else planned. Maybe Ari was right about there being someone at the cornucopia. Maybe the Gamemakers wanted to see what they would do.

In any case, they had given the Gamemakers enough of a reason to leave them alone. Maybe _that_ had been why Ari had suggested making a move. Any move. If they appeared to be acting of their own volition, playing the Game the way the audience wanted without having to be coaxed or prodded, they might be able to avoid becoming targets for the Gamemakers' whims.

Narra looked up at Ari. "We should probably keep moving, then." As long as they still appeared to have a plan, the Gamemakers would probably be content to leave them alone.

Ari clapped her on the back. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

 **Vino Bossini, 18  
** **District Two**

When he'd been training for the Games, the thought of having to sleep on a pile of garbage had never really occurred to him. Vino rolled over again, trying to find a more comfortable position. He'd volunteered to take the first watch, and had woken Kekoa to relieve him after a few hours. Kekoa, at least, seemed to have been able to get some sleep. But how he'd managed it, Vino wasn't sure.

He hadn't expected it to be this difficult. He'd never had trouble sleeping before. The night before the reaping, on the train, in the Capitol. Even the night before the Games, he'd managed it fairly easily. But now…

It wasn't really the garbage, though. Sure, it was smelly. It was uncomfortable. But they'd managed to find a relatively flat patch of ground, and a few bits and pieces of tattered fabric to use as pillows. But every time he found a comfortable position, he thought he heard something. Rustling. Whispers. Something in the distance.

It was probably just his imagination. Probably just an animal or two rooting through the garbage looking for food. But if it wasn't…

If it wasn't, then Kekoa would wake them. Vino stole a glance at Apple, who at least appeared to be sleeping. If she was pretending, she was doing a better job of it than he was. Kekoa chuckled a little. "Can't sleep?"

Vino sat up a little. "Just keeping an eye on things."

"That's supposed to be my job."

"Never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes," Vino offered.

"It'll hurt tomorrow if you didn't get enough sleep tonight," Kekoa pointed out. "Are you really that worried about me killing you in your sleep?"

Vino shook his head. "It's not all about you, you know."

Kekoa shrugged. "Apple, then? I don't think you need to worry about her."

"I don't think I have to worry about _either_ of you – not yet, at least," Vino pointed out. "You need me. But you're not the only ones in this arena, you know."

Kekoa nodded. "True. But I'd say we probably accomplished enough during the bloodbath to earn ourselves a good night's rest."

"Don't jinx it," Vino muttered, but Kekoa was probably right. The bloodbath had been a success. Kekoa had only lost one member of his pack, and gained a new one. The audience's desire for drama between the two Career packs had probably been satisfied for the moment. Unless the other Career pack happened to be heading in this direction, the Gamemakers would probably leave them alone for a while. And if the other Careers _were_ nearby…

If they were, maybe it would be for the best, anyway. They would eventually have to face each other. Right now, they were in as good a condition as they could ever hope to be. They had plenty of supplies and weapons, and the three of them were well-fed and completely uninjured. Things weren't likely to get much better.

* * *

 **Dusty Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

She kept trying to tell herself that things could be worse. Dusty gripped her knife tightly as she and Selwyn trudged on in the darkness, farther from where the Careers would probably be hunting, if they were out and about tonight. There had already been a cannon since the anthem, so _someone_ was up to something. But they had no way of knowing who or where.

It had been her idea to keep moving, to try to keep themselves awake, but now she was beginning to regret it. The thin layer of sludge that had covered the ground for a while now was beginning to grow thicker. It was almost like slogging through mud, and they had no way of knowing how deep it would be later on.

In fact, she was about to suggest that maybe they should change directions when Selwyn held up a hand. "Do you hear something?"

Dusty held perfectly still, and now that the sound of their feet trudging through the muck was gone, she _did_ hear something. Breathing – panting, almost. Someone was breathing hard, maybe from running quickly. And they seemed to be getting closer.

"Duck!" Dusty hissed, and they both did. She could hear footsteps. Stumbling. Someone was trying to run through the garbage. But was it just one someone, or was this a chase? If one of the tributes was chasing another, she and Selwyn might be able to catch them off guard. It might be an easy kill.

They were armed, after all. Maybe the two knives and the small hatchet she'd managed to dig out of the pile during the bloodbath weren't much, but they were probably a match for what anyone else would have, except maybe the Careers.

Dusty held her breath as the footsteps came closer. Closer. All they had to do was wait and make sure that the tribute wasn't being chased by either of the Career groups. They certainly didn't want to get caught in the middle of _that_ sort of chase. But as far as she could tell in the dim moonlight, there was only one tribute. What they were running from, she couldn't say. Maybe they'd gotten a head start. Maybe the other tribute had given up the chase.

Maybe.

"I've got her," Dusty whispered as the girl in the distance stumbled closer. "Stay back in case there's anyone else behind her. You might be able to catch them off guard."

Selwyn didn't object. The girl came closer, her dagger glinting in the moonlight. The dagger made Dusty hesitate, but only for a moment. If she was armed and _still_ running, she certainly wasn't cut out for a fight. This would be easy.

It _should_ be easy.

Dusty lunged just as the girl reached her, tackling her to the ground. The younger girl screamed. "P-p-please!" the girl begged. "P-p-p-please d-d-d-don't!"

Dusty clutched her knife in one hand, holding the girl down with the other, keeping the dagger safely away from her. The girl's eyes were wide. Terrified. She'd seen that look so many times on the screen during the Games. She'd never thought … She'd never expected that look, that utter terror, to be directed at her. Dusty held the girl's arm down tightly, her mind racing. "Give me a good reason not to." _Please. Please think of something._

"I c-c-can help y-you."

 _Be more specific._ "How?"

"I know wh-where a t-t-t-tribute is. A t-tribute you d-d-definitely w-want t-to avoid."

Dusty smiled for the cameras as she loosened her grip. "Keep talking."

* * *

 **Sam Hacka, 16  
** **District Five**

At least the screaming had finally stopped. Sam leaned back against the pile of garbage, watching as Finch slept. With any luck, the cannon they'd heard earlier had been Zion's. As soon as his face appeared the next night, Finch could stop trying to convince herself to go back and try to help him. Then they could focus on—

What? Staying alive? Sam shook her head, smiling a little at the irony. "This doesn't mean you've won, Atticus," she muttered. On the train, Atticus had told her that if she wanted to live, it would be a good time to admit it to herself. But she hadn't. She still didn't. She had _wanted_ to be chosen for the Games. She was going to die.

Just not like that. Not rushing headlong into a trap to try to rescue her ally's district partner from his fate. No, there had to be a better way to go. She would just have to find it.

And she had time. Yes, there would be time for that later. After all, only one person made it out of the Hunger Games alive. If it wasn't going to be her – and it wasn't – then maybe she could do her best to make sure that it was Finch. That seemed as good a way as any to spend her last few days.

Sam stared out into the distance. The moonlight danced on the piles of garbage even as it began to dip a little lower into the sky. The stars were shining brighter as the moon faded – brighter than she'd ever seen them before. The stars were never really visible in District Five – not through all the street lights and the factory smoke. District Six was probably much the same. For a moment, Sam thought about waking Finch so that she could see it.

But that was silly. Silly to wake someone from sleep they so desperately needed in the Games just to look at the stars. The stars would be there tomorrow night. And the night after. And if Finch made it out of the Games, she would be able to look at them for the rest of her life. Sam smiled a little at the thought, watching as the light glinted off little pieces of metal in the piles of rubbish. This wasn't so bad, after all.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

It wouldn't be long before things got really bad. Brindle rolled over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position, trying to ignore the aching in her stomach. It was only going to get worse, she knew, until she found something to eat. Something to drink. But she didn't dare keep moving in the dark – not when the Careers were out there somewhere. Maybe even somewhere nearby. At least once it was light, she would be able to tell if anyone was nearby.

And dawn probably wasn't too far away. Brindle stretched a little, rubbing her eyes. She'd barely closed them all night, for fear of what might happen if she did. Who might find her. If she closed her eyes, she knew, she might never open them again. She would never even know what hit her.

There were worse ways to go, of course. Usually, the least painful deaths in the Games happened when tributes were killed in their sleep. But now that it came down to it, she didn't _want_ to go. She didn't _want_ to die. The idea of dying for something, of being a martyr for their cause, a hero for the rebels … that was appealing, in a way. It always had been. But this … if she died here, now, then she would be dying for nothing. She would accomplish nothing.

No. No, she _had_ to find a way to stay alive. Which meant that she was going to need food. Which meant that she had to get moving eventually. Brindle glanced out from behind the pile of garbage. The first rays of dawn were beginning to appear in the sky. Just a little. Just enough for her to see.

And what she _did_ see made her breath catch in her throat. They were right there. Three of the Careers. Maybe a few hundred yards away. They probably hadn't seen her – not yet, at least – but it was only a matter of time before they thought to look behind this pile. It was only a matter of time before they found her.

Brindle glanced around frantically, looking for anything that she might be able to use as a weapon. Wishing she'd been able to grab something during the bloodbath. But she hadn't been thinking about fighting then. She'd just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

But now … now that wasn't an option. She couldn't just run. She would never outrun three of them, and the girl had a bow. As soon as they saw her, she was as good as dead.

Brindle held her breath, frozen in place. Maybe they wouldn't see her. Maybe they would simply pass by the pile of garbage. Maybe they would head off in a different direction. Maybe.

Maybe.

All she could do now was wait.

* * *

 **Atticus Kelvin, 36  
** **District Five Mentor**

He couldn't wait any longer to ask her. Atticus took a deep breath and knocked quietly on the door. No answer. He knocked again – a little louder. "Come in," a voice finally answered. She sounded tired. Had he woken her? Maybe. It _was_ pretty early in the morning, but all of them kept rather odd hours during the Games, just in case something happened during the night.

Cautiously, Atticus opened the door. Elva nodded as he entered. "Figured it out, didn't you."

It wasn't a question. Not really. But he answered, anyway. "You sent the daggers. Elle and Barnabas – you sent them the daggers so that they would go after Ludwig."

"Yes."

"But not because you thought they would be able to kill him. You had to know that he would be expecting them. You could see what he was doing – preparing to ambush anyone who might come his way."

Elva nodded reluctantly. "I hoped, of course. If they managed to kill him, all the better. But I wasn't expecting them to, no."

"You just wanted Ludwig to find them … so that he wouldn't find Finch. Even though that meant he would kill Zion."

"And _because_ that meant he would kill Zion," Elva corrected. "His death was a relief – for him, too, I'm sure. And we both know it was only a matter of time before he found someone else."

"And if he went looking, Sam and Finch were the nearest – especially if Elle and Barnabas headed away from him."

Elva nodded. "Sounds like you have it all figured out."

Atticus looked away. "Because I was thinking about doing the same thing."

Elva eyed him curiously. "You?"

He knew that look. The look that reminded him that he'd survived his Games without a single kill. That more than a few of the other Victors still saw him as an outsider, as someone who didn't really understand what they'd been through. But just because he _hadn't_ killed didn't mean that he wouldn't have been willing to, if he'd had the means.

Did it?

Atticus managed a smile. "That's why I came. To thank you for doing it … before I could."

"So you don't have to feel guilty about what's going to happen to Barnabas?" There was a bit of a quiver in Elva's voice. She had known what she was doing. She had known that either Barnabas or Elle – or both – would end up in Ludwig's clutches. She had known she would spend the rest of the Games – maybe the rest of her life – living with that guilt. And she had done it anyway.

Atticus met her gaze. "He would have found someone else. What you did – it saved Finch's life. And Sam's. That's what I'm thanking you for." He turned to go. "And so will they, if one of them survives."


	30. Day Two: Weakness

**Warning:** Both Ludwig and Barnabas' POVs get a bit ugly. Just shoot me a PM to let me know if you'd like a summary instead.

* * *

 **Day Two  
** **Weakness**

* * *

 **Lydia Teff, 34  
** **District Nine Mentor**

"Come on," Lydia muttered, huddled beside Raven on the couch, watching the screen. "Don't do anything stupid." She and Raven had been trading shifts staying awake – almost like tributes again – and Raven had woken her when the Careers had gotten close to Brindle.

Their other tribute, Ludwig, didn't seem to be in much danger for the moment. He had fallen asleep inside the train car, with Barnabas tied up securely outside. Barnabas had been awake for hours, struggling against his bonds, but it had done no good. He wasn't going anywhere until Ludwig woke up.

Brindle, on the other hand, was looking around frantically, desperate for anything she might be able to use as a weapon. Lydia shook her head. "What do you think are the chances of her staying put and waiting for the Careers to pass by?"

Raven sighed. "What do you think are the chances of the Gamemakers _letting_ the Careers just pass her by? The only reason they let Ari, Narra, and Derek get away with hiding that close to the pack was because they were on their way somewhere."

"On their way to a cornucopia that doesn't exist to kill a guard who's not actually there," Lydia pointed out.

"True, but they don't know that," Raven reasoned. "And the Gamemakers probably want to see if they'll figure out what the Careers did to the water. Besides, they don't have a reason to target any of them specifically. Brindle, on the other hand…"

She didn't need to say it. Brindle had made a target of herself the moment she'd disrupted the reaping. There were no way the Gamemakers were going to pass up an opportunity to let the Careers finish her off.

And the worst part was, there was nothing she could do about it. There was nothing she could do to warn Brindle without alerting the Careers that she was nearby. And even if she could somehow send a message without the Careers noticing, what was she supposed to say? Brindle already knew that the Careers were there, after all. She'd seen them, even if they hadn't seen her. And there was no way the sponsors were going to send her a weapon – not when she was facing three Careers.

Not that the sponsors had much reason to like her, anyway. Not that she'd _given_ the sponsors much reason to like her. Lydia leaned back on the sofa, and Raven wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "With any luck, they'll make it quick," her mentor offered quietly.

Lydia said nothing. Raven was right. The best Brindle could hope for now was that the Careers would make her death quick and painless. But Careers weren't exactly known for that. Not usually, at least. And if Snap's actions during the bloodbath were any indication…

Then again, Snap wasn't exactly a typical Career. And there were three of them. Hopefully, at least one of them would have the decency to make it quick. Valkyrie had a bow. Maybe one shot would be enough to do the trick.

Lydia's stomach churned. She hated that she'd already given up on Brindle, but as she saw movement near the bottom of the screen, she knew she had been right. It was something small. Something with fur. She couldn't make out exactly what, but she knew what it meant. The Gamemakers had decided that it was time to get the Careers moving, and Brindle was too tempting a target.

Lydia felt Raven's hand squeeze her shoulder. She reached up and took her mentor's hand, which was cold and shaking. Raven's game had been the first to feature mutts, once the Gamemakers realized that the Games were dragging on too long. At first, that was all they used the mutts for – to drive tributes together if things got too boring.

But things certainly hadn't gotten boring yet. There had been seven deaths so far, after all. The tributes hadn't even been in the arena for twenty-four hours. There was no real reason to use the mutts yet. And maybe they wouldn't have, if it had been any other tribute.

But it wasn't. It was Brindle. And when it came to tributes like her, the Gamemakers weren't known for their mercy.

* * *

 **Brindle Young, 18  
** **District Nine**

She heard the mutts before she saw them. They didn't sound very large, from the soft shuffling noises amid the garbage, but they would be enough to draw the Careers' attention, unless the three of them were complete idiots. Which didn't seem all that likely. Careers who were complete morons usually didn't make it through the academy. And if _these_ were the ones who had survived the bloodbath, then they must be doing something right.

Okay. Okay, it was only a matter of time. Probably not very much time. Brindle grabbed the nearest thing she could find that might be useful as a weapon. A long plank of wood, and then a broken bottle. They wouldn't be much help, though, until the Careers got closer.

"There!" one of the Careers called. Whether they had spotted her or simply seen the mutts that were gathering around the garbage, Brindle wasn't sure. She could see the mutts a little better now. They were some sort of rodent. Raccoons, maybe? Yes, she could see the stripes on their tails now. Raccoon mutts. Maybe that wasn't so bad.

But the mutts themselves had never really been her biggest concern. The bigger problem was the fact that the Careers were headed in her direction. Brindle held her breath. It was only a matter of time before they saw her. She could either wait here like a cornered animal, or she could make the first move.

She gripped the bottle tightly in one hand and the plank of wood in the other. "For Panem," she muttered to whatever cameras might be watching. It didn't make any sense, and she knew it. Panem would gain nothing from her death. The rebels would gain nothing. But there weren't many options left to her now. If she was going to die, then she was going to do it on her own terms.

And maybe she would even be able to take one of them down with her. Maybe more than one. Maybe…

As an arrow whizzed past her arm, however, Brindle knew she was getting ahead of herself. She had to _get_ to the Careers before she would have any hope of killing them, and running on top of the garbage was difficult as it was without having to dodge arrows. The second one struck her shoulder, and Brindle couldn't help a cry of pain.

Then she heard … laughter. One of the Careers – the boy from One – was laughing at her. "Stop shooting, Valkyrie. Give her a chance. She wants a piece of us; let her have it."

Brindle gritted her teeth and charged. For a moment, the arrows stopped, and she lunged at the boy from One, whose sword was raised to meet her blow. The blade sliced straight through her piece of wood, and when she lashed out with the bottle, hoping to strike him, the sword came down towards her arm, slicing neatly through her wrist.

Brindle dropped what was left of the piece of wood as she fell to her knees, grasping her bleeding wrist, screams of pain escaping as she tried to staunch the flow of blood. It was useless. She was dead now. Maybe she always had been. Brindle struggled to her feet once more, facing the boy.

Just as she was about to reach for the bottle with her remaining hand, however, something struck her from behind. As she looked down, she could see the tip of an arrow sticking out of her chest. She dropped to the ground, face-down in the muck. "What'd you do that for?" she heard the boy from One protest as everything began to grow darker. "We were just getting started."

* * *

 **Valkyrie Kentwell, 17  
** **District Two**

"We were just getting started!" Argent protested, irritated, as the girl's cannon sounded. "She still had some fight left in her."

Valkyrie slung her bow over her back, choosing her words carefully. There were so many different reasons she could give. Argent was right about the girl wanting to fight; she'd been reaching for her bottle when Valkyrie had shot the arrow that killed her. She could say that she hadn't wanted to risk one of them getting injured. That maybe the girl had allies that were hiding nearby.

But that was ridiculous, and they would all know it. The girl was from District Nine; they all remembered what had happened during the reaping. They remembered her low training score. She hadn't had any allies during training, and the chances that she had found any once the Games had started were slim. Besides, if there _was_ anyone else around, surely they would have tried to step in and save her _before_ it became clear that she was done for.

She could also point out that she would have bled out in a few moments, anyway. The most Argent would have gotten out of her was a few more minutes of fun before the cannon. But pointing that out would just make him angrier, more annoyed that she had taken those moments from him. Because the truth was, she had done it to spare the girl those moments of pain, of humiliation. She had wanted to make her death quick.

But she couldn't admit that. She couldn't own up to feeling sympathy for a rebel – not in front of the cameras. So she squared her shoulders, put on her best smirk for the cameras, and shrugged. "Couldn't let you have all the fun, now could I? Now we're tied – one kill apiece. I'd call that fair, wouldn't you?"

He could hardly argue with that. Especially since Snap had been needling him earlier about wanting to break the record for most kills during the Games. If she made it look like she was vying for the record, as well, then taking away his chance for a kill made sense. And as angry as he was, he would have to respect that, grudging though that respect might be.

It was Snap who broke the tension. "Sounds fair to me. Besides, you'll get another chance. She's not the only tribute out here."

That caught Argent's attention. "Did you see someone else out there?"

Snap shook his head. "No. I just meant that there are still thirteen other tributes who are out there somewhere, so you've still got plenty of chances."

"Fifteen," Argent corrected. "There are fifteen other tributes."

There was silence for a moment while they all let the math sink in. Snap had only included the tributes who _weren't_ in their alliance in his count. Argent had included the pair of them. Once it came down to it, one of them was thinking like a Career; the other wasn't.

Valkyrie shook the thought from her head. That made sense, after all. Argent had years of training. Snap didn't. Argent was conditioned to think of everyone else in the arena as competition. Snap still saw the two of them as allies.

And her … what did she think of the others as? Valkyrie reached down and plucked the arrow from the other girl's back, then headed off to find the others she had fired. The one that had hit the girl's shoulder had broken when she fell, but the other – the one she had fired past her as she ran – was in tact. There was no point in wasting arrows – not when she had a limited number to begin with.

"So which way next?" Valkyrie asked, breaking the tension. "I'm not sure there's much more in this direction. And if there _were_ any other tributes around, they're probably headed away from here as fast as their legs will carry them."

Argent nodded. "So you think we should head…"

"Either east or west, then," Snap concluded. "Back to the cornucopia seems a bit unnecessary, since we've still got plenty of supplies. I say we keep going, and hope we come across someone who's still trying to get some sleep. It's still early, after all." He cast a glance towards the sky. "Unless, of course, someone wants to give us a hint about where the other tributes might be."

Nothing. The Gamemakers had already given them enough help. The little raccoon mutts were scurrying away off to their left, content that they'd served their purpose. Unless…

"Maybe we should follow them," Valkyrie suggested. "Even if the Gamemakers aren't leading us somewhere on purpose, animals tend to go where there's water … and so do tributes."

* * *

 **Elle Forster, 14  
** **District Ten**

"And th-that's wh-when I r-r-r-ran," Elle finished, flinching a little as the cannon sounded. About halfway through her story, the girl from Eight had let her up, content that she wouldn't try to run. The thought had occurred to her, but both of the tributes from Eight were older and stronger than her, and there were two of them. Besides, the girl didn't seem interested in killing her – not for the moment, at least.

"Clever of whoever sent the daggers," the boy, Selwyn, noted, nodding at the dagger in her hand.

Elle looked up, startled. "Y-you d-d-don't th-think—"

"That your mentor sent them?" Dusty finished. "No. No, I don't think so. She would know better than to send you two to your deaths. The boy from Nine – he had plenty of time to prepare. He was _trying_ to lure someone in. It just happened to be you because…"

She trailed off. Because she and Barnabas had wanted to stop the screaming. Because they'd been kind enough – human enough – to want to put someone who was in pain out of their misery. Elle brushed the tears from her eyes. "W-w-well, th-there you h-have it. Th-that's all I-I-I know. If th-that's n-n-not g-good enough f-for y-y-you…"

"Oh, it is," Dusty assured her, tucking her knife back into her pocket. "You held up your end of the bargain quite nicely. You can go. Or…" She trailed off, waiting for the question.

"Or wh-what?"

"Or you can help us take him out."

That caught the boy by surprise. "What?"

"We won't get a better chance."

"To do what? Die? Have you been listening to a word she's said? That boy is a monster."

"Exactly. And eventually, someone will have to kill that monster."

" _Someone_ ," her district partner conceded. "Give me one good reason why it should be us. Why do you think we'll have any more luck than _she_ did?" he asked with a pointed nod at Elle.

Dusty crossed her arms. "Because _we_ know exactly what we're up against. We know his weakness now."

The boy stared for a moment, dumbfounded, before shaking his head. "And I guess I know _yours_." Without another word, he turned and left, heading in the opposite direction from where the boy from Nine was. Probably trying to get as far away as he could.

Elle swallowed hard, fighting the urge to follow him. She didn't want to go anywhere near the boy from Nine, but the older girl seemed to think they would have the upper hand. "Wh-what w-w-weakness d-do you m-m-mean?"

Dusty turned her attention from her district partner, who was disappearing into the distance. "He doesn't like to be rushed. From the look of things, he likes to take his time. He wants to draw things out. Which means that we know exactly what he'll be doing until…" She trailed off, but the words hung there in the air, unspoken. Until Barnabas was dead.

Tears came to Elle's eyes. "I-I-I…" But the rest of the words wouldn't come. She had left him. She had left Barnabas, just like that. He had wanted her to, yes. And there was nothing she could have done to save him. But she had still run. She had left her district partner, her _friend_ , to be tortured by that maniac. If there was anything she could do that might save him…

The older girl laid a hand on her shoulder. "Listen. If we're going to do this, I need you to focus. Because this … this isn't a rescue mission. We're not trying to save your friend. We're trying to kill the monster who's killing him. That's all. Anything else is icing on the cake."

Anything else. Anything like the chance to save Barnabas – or, at the very least, to give him a merciful death. Elle brushed away her tears. The older girl wasn't doing this to help her. Not really. She wanted the boy from Nine dead. "Wh-why?" Elle asked at last. "Why d-d-do y-you w-w-want t-to d-d-d-o this? Your d-district p-p-partner—"

Dusty waved a hand dismissively. "He probably thinks I just feel sorry for you. If he can't see the big picture, that's his problem." She sighed. "Cards on the table?"

Elle nodded. "I-I g-guess s-s-so."

"The audience is out there now, watching. Waiting. I'm sure they're entertained by what's going on, but there's no way they want someone like him to _win_. They don't want someone like that coming back to the Capitol in triumph, or coming back the next year as a Victor, a mentor. So _someone_ is going to have to take him on. The Careers are the obvious choice, but if it's _us_ … if it's you returning for revenge to get justice for Barnabas … can you imagine how much the audience will love it?"

"S-so th-this … is j-j-just another m-move in th-the g-g-game t-to you? L-like wh-what y-you s-s-said about th-the C-c-careers d-during th-the in-interviews?"

Dusty smirked, obviously pleased that Elle recognized her role in what had happened. "Exactly." She held out her hand. "So what do you say, Elle?"

Elle looked up, unsure. Dusty seemed so certain. So confident that this would work. After a moment, Elle shook the older girl's hand. "I-I'm in."

Dusty grinned. "Excellent. Because now we have something that the boy from Nine wants."

"Wh-what's th-th-that?"

Dusty clapped her on the shoulder. " _You_."

* * *

 **Ludwig Ophiuchus, 18  
** **District Nine**

Ludwig woke to a persistent rustling noise, a noise that let him know the boy from Ten was still awake. Not that he was particularly surprised. He hadn't left him in the most comfortable position for sleeping. What _was_ a bit surprising was that he was still struggling. Still trying to work his way free of his restraints. Most people would have figured out by now that he wasn't going anywhere.

Ludwig stood, stretching, and took one more look around the train car. He'd already packed everything he would need – and a few things that he didn't _need_ , but might come in handy. Between rounds with the boy from Six, he'd had plenty of time to dig through the garbage around the train, salvaging anything that might be useful in the future. He'd found a coil of barbed wire, several bits of chain, a handful of railroad spikes, and plenty of rope.

The rope had been the most useful so far. Ludwig stuffed the rest of his supplies into a small bag and slung it over his shoulder before heading outside to check on the situation. Sure enough, the boy from Ten was exactly where Ludwig had left him the night before, on his knees, propped up against the side of the train, his arms tied firmly behind his back and drawn up over his head with a rope that hung from the bar overhead, his head and shoulders bent over forward. He looked up as Ludwig approached, his eyes bloodshot from tears and lack of sleep.

Ludwig nodded pleasantly. "Good morning."

The boy said nothing, but that was all right. Ludwig hadn't been expecting a response. Instead, he untied the rope from the bar overhead. The boy immediately slumped over onto his side, gasping in pain, his throat too dry to scream. Ludwig took his time wrapping the rope around one of the boy's boots, instead, before setting off, dragging the boy along behind him.

He offered no explanation. No reason for finding somewhere new. Leaving the boy in the dark was part of the fun. The truth was, he'd already spent too long in one place. Too many of the other tributes knew exactly where he was. The chances that anyone would come after him were slim, but he didn't want anyone finding him before he was ready for them.

Suddenly, the weight on the rope was gone. Ludwig glanced behind him to see that the boy had worked his foot free from the boot. His arms and legs were still bound, but he was struggling desperately to get to his feet as Ludwig made his way back towards him.

He'd almost managed it, too. He wasn't anywhere close to getting loose, but he'd managed to get to his knees by the time Ludwig reached him, slinging his bag of supplies into the boy's back with a smack. The boy toppled over, Ludwig's knee pressing against his spine. " _Very_ impressive," Ludwig admitted. "But that's not always a good thing, you know. It just means I have to be rougher. I _could_ just tie you up tighter, I suppose, but what would you learn?"

Nothing. He got no response. Ludwig glanced around for anything long and thin that would suffice, and his gaze finally found a broom handle. He took his time retrieving it, then opened his bag and removed the coil of barbed wire. His knee still holding the boy in place face-down on the ground, he untied the boy's hands and spread his arms out along the broom handle.

For a moment, the boy struggled, but it didn't take Ludwig long to catch hold of his right hand. He placed the end of the barbed wire against the boy's palm, wrapped it twice around both his hand and the broom handle, and then kept wrapping, the wire coiling tightly up the boy's arm, the barbs digging through the fabric of his shirt and into his flesh as Ludwig bound him securely in place. But he was careful – careful to position the barbs so that they didn't dig in too deep, didn't cause too much damage. He didn't want the boy dead.

Not yet.

Once one arm was fixed in place, Ludwig moved on to the next, working down just as meticulously from the boy's shoulder. When he reached the boy's hand, he sawed through the barbed wire with one of his knives, then took two strips of fabric and bound them around the boy's hands and the broom, tying them tightly to keep the wire in place.

The boy couldn't hold back a cry of pain as Ludwig flipped him over, face-up on the ground. Ludwig nodded, satisfied, as he looped the end of the rope around the broom between the boy's shoulder blades, then gave a tug, dragging the boy along through the garbage. "Try slipping out of _that_ ," he sneered, giving a sharp tug that forced the barbs in a little deeper. All he got in response was a soft moan. Perfect.

* * *

 **Apple Oxon, 18  
** **District Eleven**

The sun was already climbing higher in the sky by the time Vino woke her and Kekoa. "Figured you'd need the extra sleep," Vino offered. "Today's going to be a busy day."

Apple rolled over, finally sitting up a little. "What do you mean?"

Vino shrugged. "I mean we're in the Hunger Games. _Every_ day's going to be a busy day. Still, I have to say I'm impressed. You even slept through the cannon earlier."

Apple glanced over at Kekoa, who nodded. "A couple hours ago, just as it was starting to get light."

Another cannon. That made eight so far. Sixteen of them left. "Any idea who…?"

Vino shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. We'll find out tonight, I suppose, if we haven't figured it out by then. In the meantime, we should probably get moving."

"Where?" Apple asked.

"Wherever we think there might be a tribute or two," Kekoa suggested. "We are Careers, after all."

No. No, _they_ were Careers. But Kekoa was right. The audience – and the Gamemakers – would be expecting them to _do_ something. Their actions during the bloodbath had apparently been enough to earn them a peaceful night's sleep, but they couldn't count on that lasting the rest of the day – not unless they earned it.

By killing. That was how they earned the right to keep living, the right to keep playing the Game without the Gamemakers' interference. They had to prove that they were playing along, that they were in this to win. "Any thoughts about where that might be?" Apple asked as Kekoa handed her a bottle of water and a bit of bread.

He was rationing the food; that much was obvious. They'd managed to grab some supplies from the cornucopia, but they wouldn't last forever. They had a few loaves of bread, some dried meat, and a small pouch full of pretzels and crackers. They also had three bottles of water – enough for each of them to have one. Once that ran out…

"I wouldn't fret too much," Kekoa shrugged, as if he'd been able to tell that she was worried about how long that water would last. "We can always head back for more if we start to run low. There are only three Careers left in the other pack. I seriously doubt they're leaving anyone to guard the cornucopia – especially considering there _isn't_ a cornucopia. And if we happen to head back when they're there…"

He trailed off, glancing at the dagger that lay beside him. Apple's gaze strayed to her own sickle. Vino was already reaching for his spear, as if wanting to prove to the audience that he was ready to take on his former allies at a moment's notice. "All the better, then," Vino agreed.

Kekoa nodded. "Maybe. But for now, they probably aren't even there, and we'd be better off going after a group that's not as prepared. What do you say we keep heading east, see if anyone went that way from the cornucopia?"

Vino shrugged. "Sounds as good as any other direction. I mean, we don't really have any way of knowing how long this garbage goes on. The other tributes could be miles away by now."

Apple turned the bread over in her hand. "I guess I figured Careers would have some way of tracking the other tributes."

Kekoa chuckled. "Usually, yes. Footprints make things easier, but as you can see…" He gestured around them. "It's hard to find footprints when there's not really any ground. And I guess we were a bit more focused on surviving during the bloodbath than on keeping track of which way the other tributes went."

Vino shrugged. "Even if we had, the odds that they would keep on going in the same direction are pretty slim. So we'd still have no idea where they are now. So short of any sort of hint from our mentors, we'll just have to take a guess and stick with it."

Apple nodded a little. That was all right with her. She was in no hurry to find any of the other tributes. But she couldn't admit that – not in front of the cameras. "East it is, then," she agreed, tucking her water bottle into her pocket as the three of them prepared to set out.

* * *

 **Ari Zeno, 17  
** **District Three**

They were probably about as ready as they were ever going to be. Ari glanced over at Narra and Derek as they neared the piles of supplies where the cornucopia should have been. There didn't seem to be anyone around, but that could simply mean whoever was there was hiding. There was certainly plenty of garbage for them to hide behind. And even if there was no one there, there was no telling whether the Careers had left some sort of trap.

Slowly, cautiously, they drew closer. Closer. They peered behind one pile of supplies, and then another. Nothing. No one. So the Careers _hadn't_ left a guard. Ari's mind raced. That probably meant that the Career who was missing from the pack – the boy from Two – had been the one to turn on the pack. So wherever he was, he was probably with what was left of Kekoa's pack. Assuming neither of the cannons they'd heard since seeing the faces in the sky had belonged to one of the packs, that put them at three members apiece. Two Career packs, still fairly evenly matched. They probably couldn't ask for a better scenario.

On top of that, _his_ alliance was intact. There were three of them, as well. Maybe they weren't Careers, but they were still alive. They were armed. And now they had piles of supplies at their disposal. They weren't crazy enough to think _staying_ here was a good idea, of course, but they might as well make use of the supplies they had access to. "Let's grab a few more weapons while we're here," Ari suggested, reaching for a spear. "And some extra food and water – as much as we can carry."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Narra said softly, examining one of the piles.

Derek looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

Narra held up a bottle of water. "It's been opened."

Derek shrugged. "So? They were bound to drink some of it."

"But they _haven't_." Ari took the bottle from Narra. "She's right. They didn't drink any – just opened it. Why?"

"You think they did something to it?" Derek asked skeptically.

"Maybe," Ari reasoned. "In any case, I wouldn't want to chance it. Let's leave the water." He thought for a moment. "Or…"

"Or what?" Narra asked.

Ari picked up another bottle. "This one _hasn't_ been opened. And neither has this one. This one has. A bit careless, really. They should have opened all of them. But you can tell which seals have been broken."

"So we take the ones that are safe?" Derek reasoned.

"Exactly," Ari agreed. "As many as we can carry. Pour out any of the ones we can't fit in our bags, and leave the rest for them."

Narra shook her head. "I'm sure they took plenty of water with them when they left to go hunting."

Ari nodded. "I'm sure they did. I'm not expecting to fool anyone. But think about it. If they come back to find their supplies have been messed with, that someone figured out what they did to the water and left them with none, who will they suspect? Who would have the audacity to steal from the Careers and then taunt them like that?"

Derek smiled a little. "The other Career pack. They'll think it was them."

"With any luck, yes," Ari agreed. "And if not … well, we've lost nothing. We can take plenty and still leave enough to make our point. So let's get to it."

They stuffed several water bottles in each of their packs, followed by as much food as they could reasonably carry. Enough to last them quite a while. Maybe even the rest of the Games. They each chose a few more weapons – knives, a few daggers, and a spear each. Then they poured the clean water they hadn't taken out on the ground.

By the time they finished, the sun was high overhead. "We should find somewhere safer to spend the rest of the day," Ari suggested. "The Careers will probably be gone for a while yet, but someone else might come looking for supplies."

Derek shrugged. "As long as it's not the other Career pack, we can take them."

Ari chuckled. He was probably right. And the audience would love the fact that he was getting cocky. But the fact remained that there _was_ another Career pack out there, and he didn't want to find himself facing them. Not yet, at least. Not while there were still three of them. Maybe once the packs whittled each other down a little more…

"Maybe we could," Ari agreed. "But there's no need to find out just yet. Let's get going. The Careers were headed that way last time we saw them." He pointed south.

"So you think we should go the other direction?" Derek asked.

Ari shook his head. "Quite the opposite. I think we should follow them. Stay on their tail, as it were. They're probably not going to double back and look somewhere they've already been, so the safest place is probably exactly where we were."

That met with no objections, so they set out. Ari adjusted one of the bag straps around his shoulders. Everything seemed to be going perfectly.

* * *

 **Barnabas Ford, 18  
** **District Ten**

The sun was high overhead by the time the boy finally stopped to rest. At first, Barnabas figured he was just stopping to flip him back over again. Every so often, the boy from Nine had stopped to adjust the way Barnabas was positioned, turning him over so the other side was facing down, dragging through the garbage. His whole body was bruised. His arms were growing numb where the barbs dug into his skin. His clothes were dirty and tattered, and he was pretty sure he'd soiled himself after one particularly sharp jolt.

Sure enough, the boy from Nine took hold of the broom handle and drew Barnabas up by the shoulders, turned him, then lay him back down again, face-up on the ground. Barnabas blinked the sweat and tears out of his eyes as the sun beat down. The boy from Nine had seemed tireless, but now he showed no sign of wanting to get moving again. Maybe they'd finally reached … well, wherever it was he'd wanted to get to.

From what he could see – which was limited – it didn't look like anywhere particularly special. There was a pile of garbage off to his right, a bit larger than any of the other piles he'd seen. After a moment, the boy dragged him a little farther behind the pile of garbage. "Yes, this should do," he mused out loud. "This will be a good place for you to wait."

Barnabas kept his mouth shut. The words were bait – bait he had no intention of taking. The boy _wanted_ him to ask what he would be waiting for. So he said nothing as the boy knelt down beside him, untying the knots around his hands and unwinding the barbed wire. Barnabas gasped in pain as the barbs ripped out of his arms. Satisfied, the boy tossed the broom handle off to one side, then began untying the ropes around Barnabas' legs.

Barnabas didn't move. His whole body ached too much to even think about trying to get to his feet. If he tried, the boy would just tie him up again – or worse. Better to wait this out. Maybe he would get another chance later. Maybe…

But part of him knew better. He would never get another chance. The boy wouldn't let him. If this was where he wanted him, this was where he was going to stay. Barnabas clenched his teeth, determined not to scream, as the boy tore away what was left of his shirt, revealing the marks along his arms where the barbs had pierced his skin. Slowly, taking his time, the boy removed Barnabas' remaining boot, his socks, then the rest of his jumpsuit, leaving only his soiled undergarments. Then he knelt down close to Barnabas. "Yes, this will be the perfect place for you to wait while I find her."

"Her?" Barnabas' voice was little more than a wheeze, but in that instant, he knew he'd given the boy exactly what he wanted. But he couldn't help it. If he meant what Barnabas thought he did—

"Your little district partner, of course," the boy sneered. "Oh, you thought she was safe? She got away, but not for long. You thought you were saving her, but you've only made things worse. While you're waiting here, I'm going to find her. Then I'll bring her back here and have my way with her. And if you're still alive – and you _will_ still be alive – then you can watch."

Barnabas didn't think. He swung his fist as hard as he could at the boy's jaw. But his arm was already numb from being stretched and jolted for hours. The swing went wild, barely grazing the boy's nose before his arm flopped down uselessly across his chest. The boy chuckled as he stood up, dealing a kick to Barnabas' shoulder that would have made him scream, if he'd had the strength. "Now I just have to make sure you stay _put_ ," the boy reasoned. "You do seem to like to wriggle your way out of things, don't you. Ah." He pointed to something on the edge of the garbage pile. "That should do nicely."

As much as he didn't want to, Barnabas looked. The boy retrieved a wooden ladder, laying it flat on the ground alongside Barnabas. Then he pulled something out of his pack. A handful of metal spikes, maybe half a foot long, ugly and rusty. "Perfect," he sneered, laying them to one side.

Barnabas struggled as much as he could as the boy positioned him on top of the ladder, his feet flat against one of the lower steps, his arms and legs stretched as far as they would reach. One by one, despite his best efforts to break free, the boy bound his limbs in place along the sides of the ladder, then wrapped another rope around his chest, securing him to a step that was digging into his back.

The boy took his time. He _always_ seemed to take his time. Once he was finished, Barnabas could barely move. It was all he could do to squirm a little, trying to wriggle his way free. The boy shook his head. "Now to make sure you _stay_ there," he remarked, taking one of the spikes in one hand and a large rock in the other.

Barnabas shut his eyes, but he could still feel the spike pressing against the top of his foot, the point sharp against his skin. The rock struck the spike with a crack, and a burst of pain coursed through his foot and up his leg. Once. Twice. He heard a crack as the spike pierced through the step of the ladder, holding him in place.

Everything was a blur of pain. Pain in his feet. Pain just above his wrists as the metal pierced through flesh, fixing his arms to the sides of the ladder. He tried to scream, but his throat was too raw. All that came out were ragged gasps, and a sudden wheezing noise as the ladder was hoisted up.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The ladder wasn't completely upright – just leaning back at an angle against the pile of garbage. Through the tears in his eyes, Barnabas could see the boy from Nine walking away. Leaving him. Just leaving him there to wait.

Leaving him there to die.

A sound escaped his throat, but it wasn't a scream. It took him a moment to realize that it was a sob. He had thought, when he'd told Elle to run, that he was saving her life. But now the boy was off to find her, anyway, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was completely helpless, powerless to do anything but wait. Tears streamed down his face as the sun began to dip a little lower in the sky. He could only hope Elle had kept running.

* * *

 **Selwyn Trembal, 16  
** **District Eight**

He'd started running as soon as he'd been sure he was out of Dusty's sight. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how afraid he was. But what the little girl had told them, what the boy from Nine had done to the boy from Six, what he was probably doing to her district partner right now … it terrified him. The fact that Dusty wanted to confront him, to risk her own life to try to kill him, didn't make any sense.

Or maybe … maybe it made more sense than he would have thought. Maybe Dusty was softer than she wanted to admit. Setting the Careers up to kill each other – that was one thing. They wanted to be here. They'd asked for this – most of them quite literally. They were just getting what they deserved. But she'd had the perfect opportunity to kill the girl from Ten, and she hadn't taken it.

Of course, neither had he. He could have stepped in and killed her. Would Dusty really have stopped him? Maybe. Maybe not. But once she'd started talking, once she'd explained what she was running from, his only thought had been to get as far away as possible. The fact that he was leaving his only ally was an afterthought. If the choice was between staying together and staying _alive_ … well, there wasn't much of a contest.

So he ran. He ran until his legs felt like they might give out if he took one more step, and then he collapsed behind a pile of garbage. He would probably be safe for a while. If Dusty and the little girl were heading towards the boy from Nine, he would probably be too occupied with them to go hunting for anyone else. And the Careers––

Selwyn had to hold back a burst of laughter as he realized he hadn't even been _thinking_ about the Careers. For all their aggression, all their posturing, all their talent, at least the Careers tended to make their kills quickly – if for no other reason than to keep the Games moving at a reasonable pace. They didn't draw things out, and they certainly didn't spend days torturing their victims to death. If a Career killed him, at least it would be quick.

Selwyn took a deep breath. Then another. He didn't want _anyone_ to kill him. He wanted to live. He just wanted to _live_. Why didn't Dusty understand that?

Selwyn shook the thought from his head. It shouldn't matter. It _didn't_ matter. He didn't care what Dusty thought. If she wanted to get herself killed on some suicidal revenge mission, that was her problem. At least he'd had the sense not to let himself get dragged into it.

What was she _thinking_?

Not his problem. It didn't matter. Slowly, Selwyn reached into his pocket and took out one of the small bags of nuts he and Dusty had grabbed from the bloodbath. That, a half-full bottle of water, and the knife in his pocket were all he had to show for their efforts. But he was still alive. That was the important thing.

That would always be the important thing.

Selwyn ate a handful of the nuts and drank a little of the water. He would have to find more food. More water. And it would be better if he did it before dark. He started digging through the pile of garbage behind him. The chances of finding something seemed slim, but it seemed like a better idea than just sitting there and waiting. Waiting to hear a cannon. Waiting to find out who might have died today.

Not Dusty. Not yet, at least. There hadn't been any cannons since they'd parted ways. But it was only a matter of time. If they succeeded, there would be a cannon – the other boy's. If they failed…

If they failed, it might be hours or even days before he heard a cannon. Selwyn tossed an old shoe off to the side of the pile. For Dusty's sake, he hoped he was wrong about their chances. He hoped they could manage to kill the other boy. But it certainly wasn't a chance he would have taken.

* * *

 **Dusty Foreman, 18  
** **District Eight**

This wasn't a chance most people would have taken. She'd known that the second Selwyn decided to take off and leave her and Elle to take their chances alone. But at the end of the day, this was how the Games were played. This was how the Games were _won_. Tributes didn't win the Games by playing it safe, by staying where they knew they wouldn't find anyone dangerous. They won by taking risks, by seeking out opportunities, by betting everything on one insane move.

Selwyn probably thought he had her all figured out. He thought she had simply taken sympathy on Elle because she was younger, because she was scared, because she needed help. And she _did_ feel sorry for the girl. Who wouldn't? But that wasn't what this was about. That wasn't a good enough reason to take this big of a risk.

But what she had told Elle was true. The audience would love them for this. It was a role she hadn't been expecting to play – the role of a hero. But she had an opportunity to make an impression, and she wasn't about to pass it up.

Finally, she and Elle could see the train car in the distance – the one where Elle said she had found the boy from Six tied up, where the boy from Nine had ambushed them. She couldn't hear anything, and that alone was promising. If the boy was trying to draw in another victim, there would be screaming. Instead, there was silence. Nothing but silence.

Elle was trembling as the two of them took a few cautious steps closer. Dusty laid a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. "Look, if you don't think you're up to this…" She trailed off. _Three. Two. One._

"Of c-course I-I'm up t-t-to it," the girl whispered back, right on cue. Any doubts she'd had about herself had been silenced the moment Dusty had called her resolve into question. Perfect. She couldn't have her new ally deciding to back out at the last moment. The whole plan revolved around her.

Of course, the plan also hinged on the idea that the boy from Nine would want to find her. But that seemed like a relatively safe bet. From what Elle had described, the boy was _very_ thorough. Meticulous. He wouldn't like loose ends. The fact that Elle hadn't done as she'd been told, the fact that she'd gotten away – it was probably eating him up. It would make him angry. And angry people made mistakes.

Mistakes like trusting her.

Dusty gave Elle a pat on the back. "Okay, then. The show's all yours."

Elle nodded, took a deep breath, and started making her way in the direction of the train car, stumbling a little, trying to look like she was in a daze. It didn't seem to take much effort. Dusty crouched low, waiting. Just waiting. It was only a matter of time before the boy from Nine noticed her, no matter how engaged he was in whatever horrors he might be inflicting on her district partner. Even if he suspected something, he wouldn't be able to resist the chance to recover what he'd lost.

She would wait until he was distracted – until he was focused on Elle – and then she would strike. What Elle probably didn't understand was how long that would take. He would be wary at first. He would suspect a trap. It would take a little while to convince him that nothing was amiss, that someone really had wandered right into his grasp.

What Elle might be forced to endure in the meantime made Dusty's stomach churn. But there wasn't a good alternative. She couldn't rely on simply besting him in a fight. She would need the element of surprise on her side. She would need every advantage she could get.

Elle disappeared inside the train car. After a few moments, she emerged, circled around behind it, the continued looking around. Searching. Dusty gripped her knife tightly as Elle hurried back towards her. "He's not there!" the younger girl called.

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. He's gone, and so's Barnabas."

"Damn it," Dusty muttered. Smart. He'd been smart enough to suspect that Elle might come back for her district partner. He didn't want to be found – not yet. That could only mean one thing. They would have to wait for him, instead.

* * *

 **Finch Ares, 18  
** **District Six**

It seemed like she'd been waiting for hours for the sun to go down. Finch paced back and forth across the garbage. It would probably be smarter to save her strength. She and Sam had managed to find a little food among the rubbish, but not much. And they hadn't found any water at all. If they didn't find some soon…

Sam was leaning back against the pile, staring up at the sky. The sun was beginning to set behind them. They'd been heading east all day, but still hadn't found anything besides more mounds of garbage. Usually, there was some source of water in the arena. A river, a pond, a stream – even a few puddles. _Something._ Even when the arena had been a desert, there had been water inside the cactuses, and enough of the tributes had figured that out. Finch shook her head. If the two of them didn't find something soon…

They would have to head back to the cornucopia. They would have to try to steal some supplies. But would they even make it back that far if they didn't find any water? Maybe they should start heading back now. But if they went back…

They had no way of knowing who might still be there at the cornucopia. The Careers might be there, or they might be out hunting. Another tribute or two might have decided it was a good idea to go back and find supplies. The boy from Nine might even be there, if he'd finished with Zion.

Finch tried to shake the image from her head. They'd been in the arena almost two whole days. Zion was almost certainly dead by now. They hadn't heard any screams in quite a while. In only a little while, they would know for sure. There had been two cannons since the tributes' faces had appeared in the sky the night before. If one of them had been her district partner's…

Then she could stop worrying about him. Maybe she could stop blaming herself. Finch settled down on the ground beside Sam, waiting. She was about to suggest that maybe they should head back towards the cornucopia when, suddenly, a sound split the air. But it wasn't a scream. It wasn't even human. It was a howl – a high-pitched, hair-raising howl drifting across the arena through the night.

"Dogs?" Sam asked.

Finch shook her head. Not ordinary dogs. They were almost certainly mutts of some sort. But they didn't sound close. In fact, they seemed to be coming from the direction of the cornucopia. Or, at least, from somewhere off to the west. Maybe heading back in that direction _wasn't_ such a good idea.

Or maybe it was. Even mutts had to live on something, after all. If they found the mutts, they might find water. Maybe.

But 'maybe' wasn't good enough. And it certainly wasn't a good enough reason to head _towards_ the sound of mutts. Not when it was already growing dark. If the Gamemakers wanted the mutts to find them, then they would. But for now, they sounded far away. Chances were, the Gamemakers had other plans.

At least, she _hoped_ they had other plans.

* * *

 **Prometheus Quint  
** **Junior Gamemaker**

"Now?" Prometheus asked hopefully, studying the screen. He'd been waiting for hours – ever since Ludwig had tied Barnabas to the ladder and left him for dead. Well, that wasn't _quite_ right. Ludwig didn't want Barnabas to die – not yet. He wanted an audience when he finally found Elle.

And Prometheus had little doubt that the boy would eventually find Elle – and probably Dusty, as well. He was headed back towards the train car, taking his time, as if he didn't have a care in the world. What he didn't realize – and what Dusty had – was that the audience wouldn't tolerate his antics forever.

Zion had been one matter. He hadn't been the most notable tribute to begin with. He hadn't been particularly well-liked by the audience. While the pair from Ten had never really been strong contenders, the audience _liked_ them. What Ludwig had done to Barnabas wasn't sitting well with them, and what he planned to do to Elle…

The thought made Prometheus' stomach churn, but he ignored the impulse to simply release the mutts in Ludwig's direction before he could find the little girl. He had a different job to do, and he was still waiting for Jairus' approval to do it.

Jairus shook his head, holding up his hand at Prometheus' question. "Not yet. Wait until after the anthem, at least."

And that was it. That was all he needed to hear. Jairus had a plan, and that plan apparently involved letting the tributes know who was still alive first. Maybe letting Elle and Barnabas know that the other was still alive. Or maybe informing Ludwig that his district partner was already dead.

That would almost certainly disappoint him. Prometheus smiled, satisfied, at the thought. Ludwig had been tailing Brindle during training, watching her like a hawk. He may have gone after her during the bloodbath, if they hadn't been positioned on opposite sides of the circle. But that had been deliberate. Jairus hadn't wanted Ludwig to be the one to kill her. He'd wanted one of the Careers to do it. Someone who supported the Capitol, and someone who the Capitol could support in return. Brindle was a rebel, and Ludwig…

Well, he wasn't much better. He had no respect for authority. He didn't care one way or the other about pleasing the Capitol. He was giving them a good show, but that had never been his intent. He was simply pleased to have an outlet for his impulses that wouldn't result in him ending up in prison again. He didn't really care about the Games, and that … that was about to come back to bite him.

Prometheus leaned back in his chair, waiting, as the anthem echoed through the arena. The tributes looked up, some hoping to see a particular face, some hoping _not_ to see one. Prometheus drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Only two faces – Zion and Brindle. Then he could get on with his job.

Zion's face appeared first, and a camera zoomed in on Finch's face. She looked relieved, and Prometheus couldn't really blame her for that. It wasn't her fault, really. If she'd tried to help him, if she'd gone after Ludwig, she would have wound up in exactly the same position Barnabas was in now – or worse. Maybe now the two of them would be able to focus on finding the supplies they so desperately needed. They were _so_ close.

Brindle's face was next, and a shot of Ludwig's face told Prometheus all he needed to know. The boy was furious, his expression hard and determined. He'd clearly had plans for Brindle, but now those plans had been shot to hell. But he still had plenty of things going for him – or, at least, he thought he did. He set out towards the train car at a slightly faster pace.

Prometheus looked up at Jairus. "Now?"

Jairus gave the screens one more glance, deciding. Finally, he nodded. "It'll be rain tonight."

Prometheus grinned. "Let it come down."


End file.
